


Human Blooms

by TheWritingSquid



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Burns, But it’s Platonic, Dadgil, Dadgil Week (Devil May Cry), Emetophobia / Vomit, Gen, Halloween, Hanahaki AU, I Love Her To Pieces Though, Implied Past Abuse, Lots of Angst, Or Inspired by Hanahaki Anyway, Original Character is Secondary to Story Core, Sickness-Related Thinness and Eating Struggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-23 18:01:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21324346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWritingSquid/pseuds/TheWritingSquid
Summary: The Qliphoth, a demonic tree capable of crystallizing human blood into demonic power. When Vergil learns he can ingest its seed to transform himself into a full demon, he does not hesitate. After all, the only cost is his ability to form human bonds, and he has no use for such weaknesses. That is… until he learns he has a son, a ten year old boy in desperate need of a parent to love him. The blue roses crawling out of his mouth just might mean something has gone horribly wrong with his ritual…A collaborative illustrated fic inspired by Hanahaki stories for Dadgil Week, byThe Writing Squid(writing/outline) andLabyeha(art/outline).
Relationships: Dante & Vergil (Devil May Cry), Nero & Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 238
Kudos: 381





	1. The Impossible Flower

**Author's Note:**

> All big storyline tags such as those related to the ending or to character deaths have been omitted, and I picked "Choose Not to Use Archive Warnings". I'll happily answer any questions you might have about content in the comments or in twitter DMs, however. We just want to keep it a mystery for anyone who wants to go in unwarned.

Vergil licks the blood on his lips, grounding himself in the coppery taste, and stares at the petals scattered at the bottom of his sink. Blue rose petals, pieces of an impossible flower that had crawled up his throat and out of his mouth. His fingers tighten around the sink as his body shudders toe to head, and he wonders if more are on their way, if he needs to stay in the bathroom until they’ve all come out. Whatever they are.

Slowly, his hands shaking and his breath short, Vergil wipes the blood at the corner of his mouth. He bit his lips as they came out, and the cut isn’t healing as it should. Something is wrong with him and he doesn’t know what yet, but he has a suspicion. There _ was _supposed to be a plant growing inside of him, but that had failed, hadn’t it? Besides, the ritual didn’t have anything about blue roses. Why would it be linked to this, or the cause of it?

No, it must be something else. Someone must have cursed him, he decides, and he’ll find out who and make them pay. 

“M-Mister Father?”

The small voice comes through the bathroom’s door, hesitant—fearful. Nero always sounds afraid of him. Even now, three months after he first picked up the child at the orphanage, it leaves a bitter burn at the back of Vergil’s throat. All his life, he’s wanted to project power, to make demons and humans flinch in terror, but not now, not with Nero. A lot has changed since he’s first held the child’s hand, so small in his. Nero had called him Mister at the time, too, and Vergil’s attempt to stop that by telling him he was his father, and Nero could thus call him that had only resulted in confusion. The closest he’d managed to get is “Father Vergil”, which sounded entirely too religious, so “Mister Father” became the go-to. Nero’s politeness feels like a defence, a way to placate strangers, and Vergil wishes he wasn’t considered as such.

At least he knows Nero’s wariness isn’t exclusive to him. The child treats all adults like this, fixing wary blue eyes on them, flinching the moment one of them reaches out to touch him. The people holding the orphanage are lucky to be so far away, now, or they would’ve met the Yamato’s sharp edge as soon as Vergil had finally pieced together the abuse behind Nero’s strange behaviour—how he hissed when someone touched his hair, how he’d bit Vergil the first time they’d fought and he’d grabbed Nero’s wrist, or how he moved so quietly through the house, withdrawn.

Some days Vergil still daydreams of returning there and razing the place.

“A moment, Nero.”

He opens the water and lets it wash away traces of this new anomaly, before splashing his face and erasing the last hint of blood. His throat still itches from the petals’ passage, and he might have thought he’d imagined them if not for the sensation. Vergil pieces his mask back together, runs a hand through his hair to slick it back, and opens the door.

Nero waits on the other side. He has brought his hoodie up and pulled it tight around his head, tucking all his hair inside, and Vergil immediately knows he’s in trouble. They’re supposed to be washing his child’s soft white hair tonight, an exercise Nero absolutely despises, and hiding it is Nero’s tactic to make Vergil forgets. It never works, but it always announces a fight.

“Nero…” Vergil starts, a warning in his voice.

The child immediately understands his scheme is up and stomps his foot down. “I don’t wanna wash!”

And there it is.

Vergil has learned a lot about Nero in the last three months. He knows the child adores the taste of lemon or other acidic food, that Nero becomes jittery and aggressive when he has been cooped up inside all day, that he must never be touched without warning and preferably never without consent, that he favors a hoodie at all times but will insist on shorts even in the cold (he thinks this is tied to the hair, or to dampening surrounding sounds the hoodie provides when he is overwhelmed), that he loves stories before bed and will ask for them despite never demanding anything else… the list goes on. Learning about Nero has given him tools to avoid crises and make the boy more comfortable. They still fight, though, and Vergil often finds himself snapping at Nero, wondering how anyone gifted with logic can be so irrational, or how he can scream for so long and destroy so much of his surroundings. Nero can turn into a tornado at the slightest problem, leaving them both exhausted and angry and sulking, and on those days Vergil thinks they will never bridge this chasm between them and understand one another. But he is getting better at predicting even inevitable fights, and that gives him hope.

"Once a week, Nero. It is not negotiable." He steps back and gestures towards the bath. “Come in.”

Figuring out how to get Nero to wash had been his first challenge. He’d first gotten bath water ready for the child, shown him the soap and set a towel and warm clothes nearby, ready for him, and he’d left the bathroom, to sit on the other side of the door and listen. The splash of Nero entering water had been encouraging, unlike the silence that had immediately followed. Vergil had waited, ears perked, but as minutes trickled by and no sounds came out, his heart had sped up. He’d eventually knocked and, upon getting no response, he’d rushed in.

Nero had been sitting fully dressed in the bath. He’d stared at Vergil with wide eyes, fear and confusion clear, and Vergil had only stared back. What was he supposed to do with that? Didn’t ten year olds know how to bath? Nero acted like he had no idea what the bath even was for! He’d gritted his teeth and approached Nero, reaching out to help him undress, and the child had bolted up to his feet, scrambling back to avoid being touched with a scream. He’d slipped at the bottom of the bath and smacked his head on the wall’s ceramic, and only Vergil’s brief grip had kept him from falling farther down and hitting it again. Stunned, Vergil had reflexively taken Nero out of the water, and the child had stumbled back and promptly ran away, leaving puddles of water behind. It had taken them two weeks to sort out a method that suited them both, but while bathing no longer posed a problem to Nero, issues still periodically crop up about his hair.

It is obvious that Nero hates his beautiful white hair, and it angers Vergil more than he can explain.

Nero tugs on the hoodie’s strings, head bent, and he slowly obeys, dragging his feet with every step. Vergil crouches next to him, just over a foot away, the unspoken distance Nero has always seemed comfortable with.

“You know the rules. We will make it quick, but we will wash it so it stays white and beautiful.”

Nero puffs his cheeks. Vergil knows what he’s thinking—that it’s not beautiful. He’s said it on occasions, when he is less sulky and more aggressive. When Vergil had first brought him home, it’d been cut all wrong, with strands looking like they’d never seen scissors while others had been snipped nearly at their roots. He’d understood why shortly after, when he’d found Nero cutting off a clump with a kitchen knife. Nero had refused to explain, but Vergil had caught him staring in wonder at his own hair often enough to make an educated guess. He had never seen white hair like theirs, and it must have earned him his share of awful comments. It has gotten better, and Nero even allowed Vergil to even out the haircut once, but it’s obvious he’s yet to learn to take pride in it.

“Remove the hoodie, Nero.”

“I don’t wanna wash,” he repeats, his tone less demanding and more plaintive now. 

“We all do things we do not desire in life.” An edge creeps into Vergil’s voice. He’s still shaken from those petals and he has no energy to argue with Nero tonight. Even on good days, Vergil lacks in patience, and today is absolutely not a good one. “Remove the hoodie or I will.”

It’s a threat, and he knows he shouldn’t threaten Nero, but it’s too late to take the words back. The child twists his fingers into the cord and steps back. Vergil fights the urge to reach out for him and hold him there.

“Please,” he says. “Let me wash your hair, and…” He pauses, searches for something to trade with Nero. “You choose where we go play tomorrow.”

Vergil already knows where he’ll pick. He’d brought the child to a massive hill where neighbourhood kids slide shortly after the first snow fell, and he has rarely seen his son as excited as that day. Nero kept flinging himself down on the plastic saucer, spinning all the way to the bottom of the slope before coming back up running. Vergil only needed to watch from the top as he discovered the warm flutters that came with every one of his child’s too-rare smiles. Nero has asked him to return once, since then, and where he is concerned, this sort of quiet demand is almost unheard of, so Vergil’s not surprised when he sees his blue eyes light up.

“Anywhere?” Nero asks.

“Anywhere.”

Tiny fingers release the hoodie’s string, and Nero loosens the hood clinging to his head before removing the entire thing. He undresses quickly, and Vergil turns his attention to the bath and shampoo. There’s not much water at the bottom when Nero climbs in, but he doesn’t seem to care. He sits down and waits expectantly. This is closer to their usual routine, so Vergil rolls up the sleeves of his shirt and kneels next to the bath. 

He tells Nero ahead of time everything he is about to do, from putting soap in his hand to simply rinsing the boy’s body. It is obvious the child still dislikes contact, and at times he reaches for the soap or washing clothes to do things himself, but he doesn’t flinch or startle when Vergil announces his intent, only frowns or scrunches up his nose. It’s one of the very rare occasions Vergil touches him, and Nero always feels so frail and small under his fingers—so breakable. 

They get through the routine quickly, Vergil doing his best to keep shampoo out of Nero’s eyes as he rinces it away. The boy watches the bubbles of soap drift away and silently touches them. He doesn’t react when Vergil turns off the water, completely lost in his mind. Vergil wonders what he’s thinking about, if he retreats like that as a form or protection or if he’s naturally distracted. Nero never plays in the bath, and it squeezes his heart to remember how he and Dante would splash water at each other and the walls. Perhaps he should buy toys.

“Do you like bubbles, Nero?” he asks, and the child’s head jerks up. He stares, the fear in his big blue eyes conveying what he won’t say. Vergil sighs. It’s almost impossible to get him to admit any personal preferences. “Give me a moment.”

Bars of soap aren’t ideal for this, but he knows what is. Vergil is back with his dishwashing soap and a plastic bucket he uses to clean the house. He hands the bucket to Nero—“Place it under the tap.”—then squirts a massive amount of soap at the bottom. Nero watches wordlessly, small hands around the bucket, and Vergil sets his hands on each of the water tap.

“Ready? Watch, Nero.”

He unleashes a massive jet of water, and the bubbles immediately form up. They climb along the bucket’s edges and form a mountain in the center, and Nero gasps at the sight. His gaze flicks briefly back up at Vergil, a silent question in his eyes. Vergil reaches out to steady the bucket.

“Go for it. It’s all yours.”

Nero hesitates, so Vergil dips his fingers into the foam and scoops part out. He extends it to Nero, who gingerly transfers them onto his. Their hands briefly touch, but this time he doesn’t jerk away—in truth, he barely seems to notice. He uses his other palm to flatten the soap, and a tiny giggle escapes him as larger bubbles go out flying and chunks of foam fall into the bath. It’s a beautiful sound, and Vergil can only stare at the shy smile on Nero’s lips and the light in his eyes. He looks _ happy_, and it’s striking how rarely Vergil sees that expression on him. Hopefully as time passes and they understand each other better, he can make it happen more often. 

Vergil allows Nero to play with the soapy foam until his skin has wrinkled and he looks about to fall asleep in the water. Forgotten is the scratching sensation at the back of his throat and the unsettling sight of blue petals in his sink, yet as Nero crawls into bed and huddles under his blankets in silence (never responding to good night wishes), Vergil feels a tickling sensation inside of him, like something delicate brushing against skin.

It could be his mind playing tricks, but his instincts tell him it’s not. Something awfully wrong is happening, and he needs to figure out what.

** **

###

** **

Moonlight flashes across the Yamato’s blade as Vergil unsheathes it and leaps down. His boots crunch in the snow as he lands in the alley, less than a foot behind his target, and brings the katana to a stop an inch from her neck. A strand of her long hair falls slowly to the ground, and she tilts her head to watch it, unfazed.

“I said no refunds,” she declares. 

“I want answers.”

It has taken a month for Vergil to admit to himself that he has not been cursed, unless one can curse himself. He wakes up every morning with a soft aftertaste on his tongue, only to find his body heaving seconds later, forcing him to dash for the bathroom again. The petals have grown in number, and with them comes grey bark-like chunks of unknown origins. Or, well, unknown until one of them sports a honeycomb-like pattern he’s seen on several drawings of the Qliphoth tree, and he’s forced to face the truth: his ritual hadn’t failed.

A year has passed since he’s ingested the Qliphoth seed, sitting cross-legged in the middle of a ritual circle drawn from his own blood, power thrumming all around him. It had been an enormous seed, almost impossible to swallow, its outward shell disgustingly soft and crinkly. The revolting sensation of it traveling down his throat had only been worsened by the long glass of human blood he’d followed it with. His heart had pounded as he’d waited for the magic to take hold, for something—anything—to happen. Yet the power gathered around his circle had only dissipated, leaving him frustrated and confused, a pointless seed in his stomach.

He should have known trees did not grow in an instant, but Arkham’s sparse notes on the topic had been unreliable from the start and his underworld contact had made no mention of the required time. So he’d figured… perhaps there was more she’d omitted to tell him. Perhaps he ought to pay a less-than-friendly visit.

She calls herself M, for ‘Mother’, because she is the purveyor of all things—or so she says. While in all appearances she deals first in arcane artifacts and dangerous poisons, M has a reputation for trading in information as well, both as recipient and provider of it.

“Answers, is it?” she asks. “I hope you can pay for those.”

“Of course. In exchange, I will grant you your life.”

She laughs, and Vergil remembers that this is what had first appealed to him, when he had decided whether or not he should stoop to dealing with her. She accepts the extent of his abilities, but she doesn’t cower. Of course, she’s not entirely human herself; he can sense the aura, under the surface, and catch ripples of her true form where the illusion sometimes fail—straight black hair coiling into shimmering purple locks, high-collared black coat hardening into proper armour, heels becoming claws.

“Always so confident.” She still hasn’t turned, but she reaches up, and her fingers stop an inch of the Yamato’s blade, as if she instinctively knew he would take offence to her touching. M spuns slowly to face him, and for a moment the brown of her eyes catches moonlight and flickers purple. She looks him up and down, a quick smile curling her lips. “Blue roses, huh? How intriguing.”

His breath catches and he schools his surprise into a scowl. “So you do know.”

“To some extent.” 

At least she doesn’t waste his time with denial. But she’s tricked him, and he has no intention of letting it slide. His powers flare as he pinches time and closes the gap between them, sliding the Yamato along the line of her neck—though _ that_, to his surprise, drains him more than it should have. She tilts her chin up and meets his cold glare. M is intelligent enough to understand the threat.

“Don’t blame me. If you weren’t ready to abandon all human bonds, then you should not have eaten that seed, Vergil.”

“I was,” he snaps.

That was the cost of the Qliphoth’s growth. Vergil hadn’t cared about sacrificing his humanity if the trade-off was power—wasn’t that the very goal? The demon tree would feed on his human blood, replacing its weakness with might beyond compare, turning him at last into a full demon. Human emotions only dragged him down, keeping him from his true potential.

Besides, he’d thought, who did he even have left to connect to? Dante, who’d been ready to kill him atop the Temen-ni-gru, who hated everything Vergil had become? That was already ruined, an impossibility easily sacrificed.

But now… now he has Nero.

He stiffens at the realization and, close as they are now, bodies against one another, she feels the tell and her smile widens. “‘Was’. A curious choice of verb tense, isn’t it?”

Vergil can’t help his low growl. He’d forgotten how infuriating she is, how confident that he wouldn’t kill her for the sake of it. It’s tempting: he has a month of flower-related frustrations to vent and she’s the source of it. But he needs a way to fix this, and she’s his surest best.

“Tell me what you know. _ All _that you know, this time.”

“You’re dying.”

She drops it casually, like it doesn’t matter at all—and to her it doesn’t, really. But Vergil can’t afford to die, not in general, and certainly not now that he has Nero in his care. 

“Then tell me how to make it stop, or you’ll be dead before I am.”

He lets the Yamato nick her skin, a thin red line running along her neck. Her smile vanishes, but she’s yet to flinch under his glare.

“A Qliphoth is growing inside of you, Vergil, and its magic has gone awry because _ you _ are clinging to your human love. I could cut it off, for a fee, but if it has taken roots deeply enough to produce flowers, then any removal will tear the feelings it was meant to feed on… permanently.” She leans back and crosses her arms, chin tilting up and smirk returning. “Power or humanity… You cannot have it both ways. You planted it, and now it’s growing. If you do not let go of these pesky fatherly feelings, they _ will _kill you.”

His grip tightens on the Yamato as shock ripples through him. How did she know about Nero? He has not mentioned the child to her tonight, and did not know himself when they’d last met. But this is the sort of woman M is—her very survival hinges on what she knows, and how much she can sell it for. Vergil steps away, sheathing the Yamato with a flourish.

“There’s… no other way?” he asks, and he hates the hitch in his voice and all that it reveals.

“Not in theory.” Her head slowly tilts, as if weighed down by her thoughts. “You’re a peculiar subject, however. Those who’ve attempted this before you were all human. Who knows? Perhaps the Sons of Sparda play by different rules than us mere mortals.”

She laughs again, a quick lilting sound that leaves him cold and angry. His lineage is something else he’s never told her, and he cannot help but wonder if she knew, when she first sold him the seeds. She must have sensed it, at least, the same way he can tell she’s no “mere mortal” as she pretends. He watches her go, itching to slay her still, to soak her smugness in pain and teach her the cost of playing him for a fool, yet he cannot help but think she knows more. The wind snaps at his three-trailed coat and the blue scarf he has replaced his cravat with, and Vergil watches M’s form glide around a corner, her footprints in the snow more clawed feet than heeled boots. 


	2. Burning Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vergil and Nero learn to live with one another, and an unfortunate accident occurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick reminder to go see Labyeha's [cover](https://twitter.com/labyeha/status/1193510999573164032) and [art](https://twitter.com/labyeha/status/1193519086480703488) for the first chapter!!

Summer arrives, and with it flowers go in full bloom—including the ones in Vergil’s stomach. The snow has finally melted when he finds himself bent over the toilet, a full blue rose tumbling from his lips and into the water tank. Droplets of blood follow it, and he stares at the beautiful flower, now stained with red. There’s a poetic image there, about the way his blood marrs the symbol of his impossible love, or how it’s killing him. He can’t quite make it coalesce into something; he’s never been much of a poetry writer, despite his love for the art and his many attempts at it.

It’s the first of many flowers, and some days Vergil thinks he can feel the thorns scratching at the inside of his lungs and stomach, or wherever these flowers are coming from. He stops counting the number of times he’s been forced to run from Nero to spit one of these out now, and he instead starts choosing their activities outside to more easily excuse himself. At least Nero enjoys playing alone. He does not need Vergil to climb into spidery structures of cables or play in the sand, and he seems to prefer those to swings and other games that’d require his help. The child isn’t fooled, however. His gaze tracks Vergil when he asks for breaks throwing the frisbee and vanishes in a park’s facilities, or when he insists Nero goes on ahead and alone while they walk. He has yet to ask about it, so they both go on as if nothing is amiss.

But something is, terribly so. A tree is growing inside of him, eating him from the inside, and Vergil has not found a solution. M had nothing useful for him, and the smatterings of notes he’d found in Arkham’s belongings—the accursed hints that had first sent him down this path—did not help either. When Vergil sits on a park bench and watches Nero play, he mulls over everything he knows, turning it restlessly in his head, desperate for a flash of inspiration, a sudden solution. It is foolish, but he cannot help it.

Sometimes a blue rose comes up with a torn, and as it tears his throat and tongue and leaves him bleeding, he entertains returning to M, asking for her to tear the Qliphoth out of him. Yet these thoughts are always dogged by different ones, of all the small ways his relationship to Nero is improving, however slowly, and of all the warm memories he is accumulating. Nero still does not trust him, but Vergil has discovered that routines help keep him calm. In this regard, they are much alike: the predictability is grounding, reassuring. 

So Vergil keeps mornings the same: they wake up, choose together what Nero wears, and he puts it on while Vergil starts water for his coffee and Nero’s oatmeal. He sets out several choices of toppings, and Nero is the one who picks what he wants in it. At first he would always go for the raisins, but over the months he has started trying fruits and caramel and a large variety of things, and now he sometimes asks Vergil for specific new toppings when they are at the grocery. Once they are done, Nero plays on his own to give Vergil time to clean the kitchens. Activities vary, but all of their days are structured much the same. They are peppered with tiny choices for Nero to make, too—a tactic that mostly served to keep him from throwing tantrums at first, but through which Vergil learned one fundamental truth about his child: he loves to be in control.

Nero has rarely been more relatable.

In many ways, they are mirrors. Vergil had a chance at a loving family until he was nearly Nero’s age, only to have it ripped away from him. Nero had to endure the first decade of his life without anyone to love him, and now he has his first chance at it. Vergil has found him. It is unthinkable, truly, that Vergil could remove the Qliphoth tree, tearing out his love with it. Nero deserves better. So he endures and gives the child what control he can while his own slips through his hands, and with every new flower out of his mouth, he is reminded of what it feels like to be powerless.

Nero has also began helping with the meals. It started when Vergil caught him staring as he cut vegetables. After a few times, he asked him if he wanted to help and showed him how to hold a knife so he’d be safe. Nero goes about the work slowly, methodically, with a quiet focus Vergil is all too familiar with. It keeps surprising him, all the ways he recognizes himself in Nero, and he wonders if Nero sees himself in Vergil, too, or if he’s too young for that sort of thoughts. If he has them, he certainly is not sharing them—not that he voices most of what occurs to him. 

Tonight, dinner is meant to be fairly straightforward carbonara pastas. Vergil is stirring the creamy sauce when a sharp pain starts at the bottom of his throat. His entire upper body heaves in response, and he slams his palm on the top of the oven, spoon and all. His next breath comes as a long wheeze, and he knows he needs to leave the kitchen now if he intends to stay out of Nero’s sight.

“I—”

Words stay choked in his throat and he squeezes his eyes shut, fighting another heaving. It wants to come out so bad. Vergil lets go of the spoon and pushes himself away from the counter, long strides carrying him out of the kitchens and into the bathroom as another flower inches its painful way up. Somewhere through the panic he remembers to kick the door close behind him, and then he’s back on his knees next to the toilet, fingers clinging to the tank as the first few petals come out, clotted with blood and fragments of bark. It leaves an acrid taste on his tongue, and he’s thinking of how familiar with it he’s grown when the full rose follows, briefly filling his entire mouth before he spits it out. White spots start dancing at the edge of his vision, but when he tries to take a deep breath, he finds a second rose following the first. He chokes on it, his heart stumbling in surprise, and then it’s rolling out too, prickling his lips before it falls down in the water, too. Vergil stares at the two blossoms floating, blood and spit gathering in his mouth, his ears ringing.

Nero’s yelp of pain snaps him back to attention. A pot clangs, water splashes, and the child screams again.

Vergil pushes himself to his feet, images of the great pot of boiling water spilling on his son flashing through his mind as he rushes out. He finds Nero on the ground, scrambling away from the spilled spaghetti, palms and heels in splashing in the burning water with every panicked movement. 

“Nero!” 

His voice is raw from the roses’ passage and fear. Vergil crosses the room, demonic strength flowing through his body as he slows time and he scoops up the child without hesitation, ignoring the water burning his own bare soles. Nero’s hands and feet are all red, and tears streak his cheek as Vergil spins on himself and hurries into the bathroom. He plops him down in the bath, yanks the socks off, and spins the cold water tap open, pulling Nero’s hands and feet under it unceremoniously. The child has gone rigid under his vice grip, and Vergil belatedly realizes that in his panic, he has given Nero no warning about touching him, or any choice in the matter. He loosens his hold into a more gentle one. Nero stares at the cool water running across his palms and feet, soaking his pants, and stays silent.

Minutes trickle by as they remain like this. Vergil should say something, but his head is still thrumming, panic and the sudden surge of power extinguishing his ability to think, and guilt has replaced the blue roses in his throat, blocking words from coming out. He can’t help but think of the two flowers still in the toilet, unflushed and floating in bloodied water, of the blood pearling at his cut lip and the pain in his soles. He’s not healing as he should, and he knows the Qliphoth has something to do with it, but he can’t think of that right now, not when Nero stares to him, wide eyes filled with tears.

“Does it hurt a lot?” Vergil asks, even though he’s been sliced and stabbed so often he barely knows what ‘a lot’ could mean to a normal child.

Nero nods, the movement almost imperceptible, and he tries to pull his hands from under the water. Vergil holds him steady. 

“Don’t move. The cold is supposed to help.” His own feet are screaming for it, but he ignores the plea. He’s endured far worse, and he can feel his demon power very slowly take hold. He’ll be fine, in the long run. “Keep them under the running water. I’m sure I have something for burns somewhere…”

When he had first brought Nero home, the child had already had a few bruises, and it had occurred to Vergil that meant he did not heal like he and Dante had. Vergil’s pharmacy had been completely empty—what need would he have of anything but some basic bandages?—so he’d gone to the local store and raided it for everything child related he could find. Just in case. Now he’s glad he’d had that foresight, because he has painkillers Nero can take and various dressings for burns. He takes out everything he thinks might be of use and sits down with his pile next to the bathtub. Vergil tries to read the instructions, but his eyes refuse to focus on the words, or his brain is struggling to decypher their meaning.

“Mister Father…” The hesitant and small voice jolts him out of his frustrated non-reading. Vergil motions for Nero to go ahead. “I—I’m sorry, Mister Father, I… I pushed the pan away and then—Please don’t—” A stifled sob breaks his sentence, and Vergil’s heart with it. Nero’s voice has gone very quiet. “I don’t wanna go away.”

“Nero…” Vergil lowers the box and reaches out. His fingers hover next to Nero’s cheek and he watches a tear roll down, his own throat tightening. Gently, he brushes it aside. The contact startles Nero, but the child doesn’t move or scream. “You’re never going back. I promise. We’re together now.”

He should promise never to go away, too, but he cannot bring himself to do so, not knowing what grows within him. Would Nero ever forgive him, if this cursed tree takes his life and leaves him alone once more? Vergil grits his teeth, pushing the thought away. He has to be there while he can, for as long as he can. 

“I should have remained in the kitchens with you,” he says, even though he knows he couldn’t have. “Just promise me you won’t touch the pots unless I am close.”

“I-I won’t.”

“Good.” He lets his fingers trail over Nero’s cheek, his heart heavy. He so rarely gets to touch him like this, and he craves it more than he had realised. “Burns can be treated, Nero, and we will order ourselves special food later. All that matters is that you are not grievously wounded.”

“Gree-fous..ly?” Nero repeats, slowly and all wrong.

“It means badly.” 

Reluctantly, he pulls his hand away and returns his attention to the bandages and pills. Nero’s hands are starting to wrinkle under the water, but he doesn’t move them, or his feet, exactly as asked. This gives Vergil time to scan the instructions, get the appropriate painkiller dosage for Nero, and then spread out the bandages. 

Once he thinks he knows what he’s doing, Vergil helps Nero sit on the ridge of the bath and starts with his feet, which thankfully have only two blisters, then moves on to the hand. He narrates everything he is about to do once more, and Nero slowly relaxes as he works. Every little flinch of pain still tightens Vergil’s lungs, guilt and worry knotting together in a way entirely unlike the disagreeable scratchiness of the tree. If he could, he would promise this scrawny boy the world, but Vergil doesn’t even know if he has a year left to live. 

No. That won’t do. He can’t accept this… this letting himself die, consumed by a tree he planted in himself. He has not survived Mundus’s hordes and his brief time in Hell to die like this, especially not now that he has found someone worthy of being protected, someone that _ needs _ his protection. Vergil has raised the tower sealing the path to the Demon World; what is a mere tree, in comparison? 

His healing has grown weaker, and he can feel the abnormal exhaustion from using his demon powers, but he isn’t finished yet. Vergil has never given up in his life, and he refuses to start now. As he finishes Nero’s bandages in silence, he quietly vows to find a new method to remove the tree, and ensure he never leaves his son alone or unloved.

###

The daily routine changes after Nero’s injury. Even walking has become painful, so the nature of their outside activities evolves. Vergil puts together small picnics and they find nice areas to eat and read new stories borrowed from the library. Vergil tries to get Nero to read on his own, giving himself more space for the inevitable rush towards bushes or toilets when new roses come up, but Nero obstinately refuses despite the fact that Vergil has _ seen _ him read signs and other forms of text. It takes time and persistence, but when Nero eventually accepts and reads a story in front of Vergil, the reason for his reluctance becomes obvious: he is far from skilled at it. He stutters and stumbles on words, his tongue tying up and his voice shaking. Even Dante read better than this by the time they were eight, and Nero must know he is lacking. He glances up in fear every time he stumbles upon a word, and Vergil's frown deepens when he notes the reaction—which in turn makes Nero clam up. The child waits, tense and silent, for the punishment he so obviously expects.

Instead, Vergil asks if he can sit behind Nero, close to him. Once permission is given, he helps Nero with the words that pose problems, pointing to him the various ways letters can make sound, allowing him to stumble and make mistakes. Those grate on his ears, and he reminds himself that Nero has to start somewhere, and whoever preceded Vergil in teaching him clearly had no patience and no love for the child. Vergil may lack in the former, but he has plenty of the second. Once Nero’s initial reluctance is gone, he even starts seeking Vergil out for more practice. They spend entire days sitting outside, changing locations, reading together—and despite the brutal breaks to spit flowers out that Vergil has to take, this is the happiest he has been over the course of the last twenty years.

As Nero becomes better, Vergil gets more time for his own reading material, too. Anything from hints about the Qliphoth seeds to other rituals humans have used to turn themselves into a demon. He’s broken into Arkham’s study and stolen almost everything still gathering dust there, and the man had more than his share of options. Perhaps, Vergil surmises, he can find a common link between them, something to help him understand what grows inside of him and how to stop it. After a month of notes and readings—a month of increasingly numerous flowers crawling up his throat, of Nero hovering at the bathroom door every time Vergil runs off on him, clearly worried, of interrupted sleep and increasing exhaustion, Vergil still hasn’t even an inkling of a solution. He’s studied at least a dozen bloodletting rituals, to no avail.

He seeks M out again, and although he has taken great pains to conceal his exhaustion and project strength, he can tell she sees right through him. No matter. The blue three-tailed coat and the familiar weight of the Yamato at his hip help keep him calm as he offers all of Arkham’s knowledge in exchange for her help. Knowing and purveying is her job, is it not? If she’s any good at it, she’ll have a way for him. They are concluding the deal when a new flower surges up, and she grabs his forearm before he can leave, too-long fingernails digging into his skin and forcing him to spit it right there on her desk. His cheeks burn from the humiliation as it bursts through his lips and a grunt of pain escapes him.

“I’ll take that as payment, too.” 

She picks the beautiful blue rose as if it is not covered in spit and blood. Her eyes shine as she examines it, and he almost snatches it back protectively. There is something voyeuristic in her fascination that he cannot abide, and only his need for help stops him. Vergil wipes the corner of his mouth and rises, his back straight, his glare cold.

“I expect results,” he tells her, and then he’s gone, coat billowing behind him, worry gnawing at his stomach.

The rest of summer rolls around, and he gets no such things. When he demands more, M snaps at him and lets him know such endeavours require time, and that he should enjoy what little he has left, in case her research leads her nowhere. He tries, even though every week finds him a little weaker, a little less apt at watching over Nero properly. He has started napping in the afternoon—sometimes unwillingly—to keep his energy up, and he frequently wakes to find Nero staring at him, mouth pressed into a worried line. His son cares, and it makes it a little easier, but Vergil doesn’t know what to tell him, and he certainly cannot bring himself to lie and pretend it will be all right, so he says nothing at all. 

Both of them wind up with deep sunburns from one such nap outside, and while Vergil does not understand why his skin isn’t healing as has always been the case, he is almost thankful to share the stinging pain with Nero. He lets the child spread aloe on him, holding himself steady as tiny hands methodically cover his forehead and nose and cheeks, secretly wishing Nero could mend the burning in his lungs and stomach the same way he treats his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Cover](https://twitter.com/labyeha/status/1193918019891691520) and [illustrations](https://twitter.com/labyeha/status/1193918058139533312) by Labyeha for Chapter 2 !


	3. Lost Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vergil's attempts to get his ailment under control and goes trick & treating with Nero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, go check out Labyeha's [cover art](https://twitter.com/labyeha/status/1194021085240389632) and illustrations and [illustrations](https://twitter.com/labyeha/status/1194025824510328832) for the previous chapter if you missed it!!

Autumn arrives, bringing with it dead leaves and rainy days. Sleep has become something of a foreign concept for Vergil. It comes to him in fits, in-between the sudden rushes for the bathroom and his increasingly precious but difficult time with Nero. He has stopped trying to hide his sickness, though he conceals its nature to Nero. It’s one thing for him to hear his father retching, and another to discover blue roses are coming out of him. Once, when most of the leaves have fallen, he helps the local park gather the dead ones scattered across the grass and Nero gets to play in them. The day is halfway through and the leaf pile as tall as Nero when a rose comes up, suddenly and painfully. He falls to his knees, shocked by the pain, and barely has the presence of mind to crawl into the pile and hide himself as he spits blood, petals, the flower bud, and a whole thorny stem. His ears are ringing and he barely hears Nero’s quiet “Mister Father?” before the child is touching his shoulder. Vergil wipes his mouth, pushes the rose deeper into the pile of leaf, and straightens up. He forces himself to smile and assures Nero that it’s all right and they can keep playing.

Nevertheless, he’s thrilled to find M has left a message for him—parchment paper on his table at home, with a lanky handwriting in purple ink he knows must belong to her. He mentally marks down “tracked down where I live” as one more reason to see her dead once this is over, unless she saves his life and he feels particularly generous, and heads out as soon as Nero is asleep, leaving him a note so he does not worry should he wake.

She has an antidote, or at least a candidate for one. Something of her own making, based on rituals to break the hold of other demons that thrive on humans’ unfortunate tendencies to form strong relationships. Untested, she warns; could have extremely negative effects, and will certainly be painful. He doesn’t even pause before he picks up the tiny vial and leaves her there, not even bothering with thanks. She can have them if it works.

As soon as he gets home, he downs the entire vial and sits on the sofa, waiting, winter coat still on his shoulders. He used not to feel the cold, but now he finds himself shivering all the time—exhaustion, probably. At first, nothing happens, but as minutes trickle by a diffuse pain swirls at the bottom of his stomach. It grows, slowly at first, spreading out and intensifying, and by the time Vergil realizes it won’t stop and he should have hidden, it is much too late. The antidote feels like being stabbed from the inside out, like the thorns in him are spinning, tearing gashes through him relentlessly. He curls up on the couch, panting at the brutal pain, a scream building up. He knows he can’t let it out—he can’t wake up Nero—so he blindly reaches for the side table until his hands close upon something solid. A book. Nero’s book. He curses, lets it go, and bites down on his own arm instead, so hard he can feel his teeth through the jacket.

He doesn’t know how long he’s like this, agony burning through every inch of his body, his pain muffled as best as he can to let his child sleep, sweat building across his skin. He loses track of time, and eventually himself, until he wakes. There is no sun through the windows, but Nero is up, standing by the couch. He has changed into day clothes, holds a box of biscuits, and there are several apple cores at his feet. Vergil’s sluggish minds concludes time must have passed, but it’s not until he glances at the clock and notices 9:26 PM that he understands how much.

“N-Nero?” he asks.

Nero blinks at him, then extends the box. Vergil has no appetite, but his mouth is pasty and tastes of blood, so he accepts the offer. As he crunches down on it, Nero promptly informs him that he slept all day.

“Are you… are you better?”

Is he? He feels absolutely wretched, but that would be the case whether or not the antidote worked. He hesitates, then shakes his head. “I don’t know, Nero. For now, I am. Are you hungry?”

The child nods sheepishly. There’s only so far apples and biscuits can go, after all, and Vergil has been out cold for the entire day. He owes Nero three meals. He owes Nero so much more, really, for all the years he’s missed, all the love he wasn’t there to give. He ought to find a way to make up for it. Vergil tells himself he’ll keep an eye out for something special and forces himself to stand despite the lingering pain in his muscles.

It takes two days for the flowers to return. Two days of quiet joy as he catches up to sleep, plays with Nero without being on the lookout for telltale signs of a blue rose coming up, and begins to envision a full life with his son. The return hits him brutally, without much warning, and he’s lucky enough to be on his own, on the way to the grocery store. Four enormous roses come out, bundled together by a knotted stem, and he sinks to his knees as his building hope shatters.

It hasn’t worked. All that agony only delayed the inevitable, and he can feel himself fissuring at the return to this new, horrifying normal of roses falling out of his mouth. For a moment, he stays by the side of the road, hands increasingly cold against the freezing ground, a part of him tempted to lay down and give up. But Nero is waiting for him, so he puts himself together and stands back up.

His eyes fall on the Halloween decorations of the convenience store, and he knows how he’ll make up for the lost day.

###

Trick or treating is a concept even more foreign to Nero than it is to Vergil. The child’s eyes light up as Vergil explains the gist of it, but the moment he’s asked what costumes he wants, he clamps down. They go shopping together, because Vergil is in no state to craft one—not that he would be any good at it—and Nero wanders down the alleys, looking for something he wants, while Vergil introduces the costume shop’s bathroom to his peculiar ailment.

When he emerges, Nero is waiting for him (he has guessed where Vergil has disappeared to, then) and he is holding a bag with his choice. Vergil picks it up and warmth courses through him, tingling and light and pleasant, when he sees it. It’s a little bath tub, with several small white balloons for the foam. Bath bubbles and bombs have become a staple of their cleaning routine and ever since he’s started those, Nero has stopped fighting him when the time comes to wash his hair. He smiles at Nero, and his son returns it with a shy smile of his own—the kind of precious gifts Vergil receives too rarely and has come to cherish.

They have to inflate every tiny bubble themselves, so Vergil teaches Nero how to blow in the balloons and tie them. Even with help, the task strains his lungs and leaves him wheezing. He downs a large glass of water, as if that has any chance of soothing the burning in his chest. Over the last week, the pain has migrated through his entire body, crawling down his legs and arms like a root spreading through him. Every step hurts, yet he has promised Nero this evening of walking. He has to go, to make every moment count. The way this demonic tree is growing, he will not be there for next Halloween, and that hurts more than anything. He wants to see Nero in a hundred different costumes. To be only granted one… 

Vergil pushes the thought away. He is still alive and fighting, isn't he? He needs to focus on tonight. When the time comes, he helps Nero into the bathtub and arranges all the bubbles around him, tying them to the white suit under. He shows Nero the small shower cap that came with the costume, its white a hint less pure than Nero's hair.

"Your hair is already the perfect colour for this disguise, Nero. Are you sure you want this cap?"

Nero stares at it, then his gaze moves up, to meet Vergil’s. He hesitates, biting his lips, then shakes his head. Joy bounds through Vergil, and he cannot help his smile at the decision. Nero might still pull his hoodie up and cover his hair on most days, but a year ago he’d have jumped at the opportunity to hide it so completely. Vergil’s hand hovers above Nero's head but he resists the urge to pet his hair, afraid to cross one of Nero's many subtle lines about touch. As much as it stings, he remembers how he hated adults forcing themselves into his space when he was younger and he refrains from inflicting the same upon Nero. He helps him into warmer boots and gloves, slips his coat on, and then leads Nero out. The bathtub is wide enough that Nero barely makes it through the door and when they reach the stairs, Vergil offers his hand to help steady him despite his new gait. Nero accepts it, and even once outside, he does not let go.

The neighbourhood is full of small families, and both apartment complexes and single houses have put obvious efforts for the occasion. Huge spider webs and ghosts hang from balconies, brought to life through orange and purple lights, and tombstones dot many lawns. He spots a dismembered hand, several skulls dangling from trees and railings, and all manners of grotesque creatures. Between the very real demons which have pursued him for most of his youth and the distressing sights of Hell, Vergil has seen too much to be so easily horrified, but he appreciates the festive ambiance and the way Nero keeps gasping and pointing. His son is rarely this expressive, and the way he squeezes Vergil’s hand when his excitement rises is enough to soothe the aching in his chest. 

They reach a street with plenty of richly decorated lawn and Nero becomes increasingly more at ease with his trick or treat duties and with the strange balance of his costume. He starts running up alleys flanked with jack o' lanterns and waving at witches to activate them, and Vergil follows behind at a more leisurely pace. It suits him: his heels sting with every step now, and sometimes he stays behind to try and get his churning stomach under control. Flowers are coming, and as much as he misses Nero's hand in his, he'll need the space granted by his child's enthusiasm.

The heaving starts as they make their way towards a bungalow buried under decorations. Hanging fish nets and herbs cast moving shadows from a few shifting lanterns, giant mushrooms loom over the path, and a witch sits by a gigantic cauldron, a life-size scarecrow standing guard over her. It's an impressive set-up and Nero's sprinting forward the moment he sees it, mixing in with a few other kids. While Nero climbs up the handful of stairs to the house, Vergil falls back, slinking halfway between two mushrooms as he tries to push the blue roses up and out. He’s been holding them down for so long, they surge immediately, a string of blooms tied by a thorny stem. 

The pain is brutal.

It tears through him, the stabbing sensations spreading from the tips of his fingers to the heel of his boots, compounding the usual tears in his throat and mouth. Vergil moans, his vision whitening for a few seconds, and when it returns, he is on his knees, hands in the muddy ground. Four blue flowers taunt him, concrete proof that he is dying faster every day. He grabs one, crunching the petals in his palms, gritting his teeth as the rose’s thorns dig into palm, and flings the whole string away with a cry of rage. 

Nero reaches the house’s door as he looks up. He’s extending his tiny hand for the spider web-covered doorbell when the scarecrow jerks to life, grabbing his forearm with a guttural scream. Nero flinches, a strangled squeal escaping him, and he yanks his arm out. The adult laughs, but Vergil’s entire chest constricts. Nero isn’t funny-scared, he’s _ terrified_; someone has grabbed him without his permission. He stumbles back, white as a sheet, eyes wide, and his feet miss the first step. The weight of the bath disguise carries him over and Nero falls down, his balloon popping with a resounding sound as he hits the ground. He screams again, bringing his arms up as if to protect himself, flinging his gathered candies everywhere. This time, he also calls out.

“Father!”

Air rushes out of Vergil’s lungs as if he’s been punched, and he finds himself scrambling up, his heart hammering. _ Father_. No Mister, not anymore, not now when he so desperately needs help—his help. Vergil takes his first stride closer—

Pain flares through his legs and he crashes right back on the ground. Nero is trying to get up, squirming as more balloons pop, tears streaking down his cheeks. The house owners come running down as the children stay back, devouring the scene like so many vultures. 

“Kid, are you okay?” the scarecrow asks, reaching out. “Where are your—”

The moment he touches him, Nero bites his hand hard. Enough balloons have exploded that he finds his feet and sprints away. He’s not even looking forward, Vergil notes, only randomly running, away from everyone else while his small hands grasp at the balloons. They rub against him, Vergil realises, and the contact might freak him further. Nero needs him, pain be damned, so he pushes himself up, stumbling back into the path right as his child arrives. 

Nero’s eyes snap to him, and to Vergil’s surprise, he rushes into his arms. 

“Father!”

Vergil holds on awkwardly through the balloons, fighting off the burning pain in his stomach as Nero leans in. “I’m here. I’m here, Nero.” 

He can feel Nero shaking despite the distance imposed by the balloons, and it’s all he can do not to squeeze harder, or pick him up and walk away. He knows his legs won’t hold up if he tries, which means they’re stuck here, in the middle of a stranger’s lawn, while everyone watches. After the initial rush, Nero leans back. He clings to Vergil still, fingers hooked into his coat, but he won’t look at anything except his feet. 

“I can remove your balloons. Do you want that?”

A slight nod. Vergil doesn’t wait for more. He can already feel more blue roses at the bottom of his throat, threatening to come up. “I’ll keep one hand on your shoulder. This one is mine.” 

He squeezes to indicate it, and his only answer is a gasping sob from Nero. He needs a hold to do this efficiently, however, so he keeps it there as he starts ripping the balloons away, freeing Nero from the gist of his costume. It takes him a few minutes, and he can hear the mutters of the other adults as he works, forces himself to focus on the task when they cast doubts on him, and how he’d let his son alone. When he overhears “Kid’s feral anyway”, however, his gaze snaps up. He glares at the crowd and they hush immediately, huddling closer. 

“I’ll bite you myself if you touch him without permission again,” he growls. “Now get me his candies. You made him spill everything.”

His tone promises nothing but violence, and he can tell it scares them more than anything they’ve heard or said tonight. These fools know nothing of the horrors of life—even less than Nero, who has endured too many already. By the time Vergil has removed all the balloons, they’ve picked up most of Nero’s candies, returned them to his small pumpkin container, and set it down on the pathway, a few feet away. Nero is still shaking, silent, so Vergil picks it up for him, then he offers his hand.

“Let’s go home, Nero.”

Cold fingers land into his palm, and Vergil tugs his scared boy along, mentally reviewing plans to help Nero shake off his panic—hoodie, reading, or anything he asks for, really. Nero’s entire body still shakes, his breathing more gasps and sobs than anything else. It will be a while before he calms down, and even longer before Vergil’s guilt washes away.

###

M's office feels different when he crashes it again. Stuffier, like the walls are closing in on him. Vergil suspects it's his own despair threatening to choke him. He spreads his palms on the desk, focusing on the relief under his fingers to ground himself. Last week they had tried another antidote, and it had only made him retch more flowers, forcing him to spend the entire day in the bathroom. At least he had thought ahead this time, warned Nero he was trying something to get better but might be even more sick, and prepared meals for him. Nero only ever nods at Vergil's incomplete explanations, never protests or asks more questions. He is sleeping, now, and Vergil wonders if he realizes how badly death has started to cling to his father. He is more sensitive and aware than he lets on, after all.

"I have nothing new for you," M says, and her smooth voice brings him back to the present. "You waste both of our time."

He glares at her. "How can you have _ nothing_? You sold me this seed. You—" 

He coughs and spits petal as his entire body clenches. A deep shudder travels up his spine, and his body arches in a now familiar way as blood and roses pool in his mouth, then onto the desk. At first Vergil sees nothing but the red-stained blue, blurry from tears. The pain has grown so much, he can barely think through it, and he knows he's shaking even now, a pathetic weakling half-spread on this trickster's desk. 

"I need something, anything." 

His voice starts as a whisper, but her scoff fuels his anger. She doesn't understand. How can she? Nero means everything to him, and she cares for nothing. 

"M," he rasps. "Any sacrifice… I'll make it. He needs me to be there… and love him. Just tell me." His whole body shakes again, but he forces himself to stand straighter, to meet her dark eyes. Once, he could see the trace of purple in them, just as he could catch glimpses of the demon under the disguise. No more. At least there's no mockery in her gaze. "I'll give you every drop of power I have, if I must. All of it."

Her head slowly tilts to the side and her fingers pluck one of the roses. She rips the thorns away with a quick, well practiced movement, then leans over the desk and places the rose in his hair, almost gently.

"I'm afraid you no longer have even that to offer, Vergil."

She taps his nose and leans back. He stiffens, fighting against another cough, against the spidery roots digging through his body and the cracks in his soul. He hasn't been healing, it's true, and the last time he's tried to summon a sword, he only managed a blue spark, then he was horribly sick. 

So he has nothing. Even his powers are failing him… Vergil squeezes his eyes shut. He's dying, and there's nothing he can do. Nothing but plan for it.

"H-How long?"

She doesn't need to be told what he's asking about. 

"A week, I'd say."

A week. A pathetic little week. Vergil pushes himself out of his chair. He's about to be sick again, and he doesn't want to do it here, even if it's happened half a dozen times already. Better to retch in the newly fallen snow outside, the cold seeping into his entire body, than to further humiliate himself. He leaves without another word, gathering the fragment of his strength to drag his carcass home.

###

M's shop is exactly like her: magic underlies its ordinary exterior, and it likes to mock customers leaving it. It's not the first time Vergil steps out to find himself in a completely different part of the city. It's the first time it brings him at the other end of it, in its crummiest neighbourhood. He knows exactly where he is, though, in part because he's the one who destroyed this area ten years ago, but even more importantly, because he finds himself staring at a flickering neon sign both familiar and usually avoided.

_ Devil May Cry_.

Screeching discordant notes drift out of the place, tearing through the otherwise peaceful silence of winter. Diffuse light comes through the greasy windows, a sure sign that Dante is awake, somehow enjoying the awful smattering of instruments he calls music. Awake, alive, and happy.

And that… that’s too much. The remainder that Dante _ exists_—that he is successful and healthy when Vergil’s life is crumbling in his hands—slashes through him as surely as the Rebellion had, that fateful day at the edge of the demon world. Vergil drops to his knees, a sob ripping through him as looks back at his life, at the countless failures he leaves behind, all those defeats seared into him. He’s wandered restlessly and ruthlessly in his quest for power, desperate for something to shield himself with, and now… now he has something actually worth protecting, a beautiful boy who deserves the world, and he’s dying. A tree is eating through him, an accursed demon tree he planted himself, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. 

As if to confirm, his body heaves with a new string of flowers, a pack of blue roses all tied together at the stem. As he spits and coughs them on the ground, the one M placed in his hair falls off, on top of the others. A bitter chuckle escapes him, half a sob really, and he straightens up, sitting back on his haunches. Blood trickles at the corner of his mouth as his body shake, from tears and laughter both, and he pushes his hands through his worn down hair. 

Pointless. It was all pointless. He’s weak. He has always been weak, vowed to defeat, whether against Dante or this cursed tree. Every attempt to hide his condition from Nero, every hour spent researching, every humiliating meeting with M and every antidote—everything. It was all pointless; he is powerless. He will die, and Nero will be alone again.

The ground is cold under him, but so is his entire body. Only the tears and the cuts inside of him burn. He doesn’t remember when he’s last felt warm and rested, when his life has last been anything but pain and shattered hopes. He’s clung to Nero’s smiles to keep himself going, but they’ve grown rarer as he became sicker. Now he has only a week left. One week in this husk of a body, host to a demonic parasite he inflicted upon himself, to love his child and apologize for leaving.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, at the edge of Dante’s street, but eventually his raspy desperate laugh subsides and then his tears dry. Vergil wipes his face. He’s so drained, he almost lets himself fall right then and there, but he’s a long way from home.

His gaze finds the _ Devil May Cry _sign again, and then the phone cabin a few feet away. His body moves faster than his sluggish mind, and before he can reconsider, he’s found the number and punched it in.

The phone rings endlessly, but the music keeps playing and Dante isn’t answering. Vergil wants to hang up, but he can’t. He leans against the cabin’s wall, weak fingers tight around the receiver. This is the last thing he can do for Nero, and he’ll do it, no matter the cost. He won’t give up for a few extra phone rings.

Finally, the music turns off. Dante only takes a moment to pick up the phone.

“Devil May Cry.”

He says in an almost chipper tone, but Vergil detects a thread of irritation in it. The familiar voice jolts through him, leaving him breathless and dizzy. Despite himself, he slides towards the ground and a few seconds pass before he can manage a word. 

“Dante…”

Silence. It stretches on and on, a few seconds that feel like an eternity to his feverish mind. 

“Didn’t know they got phone reception in Hell.”

Vergil chokes, half frustration, half relieved laughter. Dante really hasn’t changed, has he? He squeezes his eyes shut and leans his head back. “I need a favour. Don’t make me beg.” 

He shouldn’t have said that. No surer way to have Dante try to make him beg than to ask him not to. And Vergil will, if that’s what it takes. The scratching sensation returns at the bottom of his throat, and he knows he doesn’t have much time. He stifles a cough and dives in.

“I have a son. I’m—”

“What the fuck, Vergil?” Dante interrupts. “You really doing this? Calling up at random to—”

“_Listen!_”

Vergil snaps hard enough for his big-mouthed brother to shut up, but he’s put too much energy into it and the blue roses crawl up. He pushes the receiver away from his ear, bending towards the opposite side as he spits out thorns and roses again. It’s gotten so bad, he struggles to muster the energy to eject them now, and he’s no longer sure if he’ll die from the tree and internal bleeding, or from choking on blue roses. He wipes his mouth and returns to the conversation, panting. 

“Vergil?” Dante asks, and there’s a hint of worry in his voice that sends waves of warmth through Vergil. He tries not to think of it, of what it could mean. It doesn’t matter at this point, does it?

“I’m dying, Dante. A week, at most. I couldn’t stop it.” Every word costs him, his lips and tongue cut from too many thorns, his pride shattered over and over through the last months. “It’s… well deserved, perhaps, but my son…” He fights back his tears. He’s not going to cry now, when Dante’s listening. “Come pick him up. I want Nero to have what we didn’t. He was alone for so long, and now I’m—”

He cuts himself short, because he can hear the tears in his own voice and he’s certain Dante can, too. He’s not used to explaining himself this much, especially not to Dante, but he cannot afford a refusal here. Despite everything between them, Dante is still the only family Nero has left, the only one who can help him love his white hair, or deal with any demon powers he could develop. Vergil clutches the phone and waits, shivering in his phone booth, for his twin’s answer.

“You’re still shit at parties,” Dante says. “But give me the address, and I’ll come.”

Vergil doesn’t know where he finds the energy to do so. He feels empty, relief buzzing at the base of his skull, a low charm soothing away the pain for now. He might die, but Nero will never be alone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :')
> 
> EVERYTHING IS PERFECTLY FINE. NO ONE IS CRYING. 
> 
> You can find Labyeha's [cover art](https://twitter.com/labyeha/status/1194303184258228225) and [the illustrations for that little breakdown scene](https://twitter.com/labyeha/status/1194304669524217856) and [Vergil suffering on the couch](https://twitter.com/labyeha/status/1194749339286900736) on twitter!


	4. Easy Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dante enters the scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find Labyeha's [cover art](https://twitter.com/labyeha/status/1194303184258228225) and [the illustrations for that Chap 3 breakdown scene](https://twitter.com/labyeha/status/1194304669524217856) on twitter! 
> 
> [Cover art for Chapter 4!](https://twitter.com/labyeha/status/1251918221868822528)
> 
> And now, here we go again! :]

It’s been a little over a day since he called Dante and the fool still hasn’t shown up. Vergil is starting to think he won’t. Maybe it shouldn’t surprise him this much. Dante has no love for him. They were always fighting as children, and after the Temen-ni-gru… He wishes his twin would set it aside, for Nero’s sake, but Dante has never met the child and that might be too much maturity to ask of his brother. 

Still. His absence has provided Vergil with a reason to delay any explanations to Nero. He knows he has to tell the boy their time together is about to end, but he cannot bring himself to do so. It will cause him so much distress… They have been together for a single year, and Vergil knows two things for certain: Nero has dealt with enough neglect and abuse not to trust any adults on principle, and yet Nero has learned to trust _ him_. Not with everything, perhaps, but when they first started living together, every word was a battle and Vergil would never have imagined he would one day have his son sitting on his lap, a heavily illustrated book in his small hands. Vergil’s arms wrap around him, holding him steady as Nero slowly enunciates the words, sometimes pausing as he tries to decypher them. He’s made immense progress since the summer and Vergil knows he’ll continue improving as long as someone is there to nurture him. 

Except if Dante doesn’t come, there will be no one to do so. It’s already starting, truly. Vergil can barely stand anymore, and they’ve been ordering food more often than not. Nero eats whatever comes through the delivery while Vergil shoves random things in the blender and liquefies them—by now, it’s the only way he manages to eat anything, and even that is horribly painful. The whole house is a mess, but he has so little energy, he’d rather spend it all on being with Nero. It takes every ounce of focus he has to follow the very simple words of his book, and sometimes he zones out and Nero is forced to call him back. He needs another nap, but he doesn’t want to break the reading session. He already has too few of those moments left.

But then, of course, he feels the first heave of a new string of flowers. A wave of anger shoots through Vergil—can’t he even enjoy Nero’s presence for an hour uninterrupted?—and at first he clings the child. It’s foolish. Nothing will stop the blue roses and he’ll spend longer ripping them out of his system than he ever does playing with his son, but for a brief instant, he only wants to hang on tight and pray the world will leave him alone, just this once.

Life is never that fair. Pain tears through him, a brutal fire spreading out of his chest, and a trickle of blood wells at the corner of his dry lips. They’re cracked and bloodied from the cuts of so many thorns, and when he looks at them in the mirror, he can only wonder how he’s still alive, if his insides are similarly destroyed. To think the Qliphoth was supposed to make him more powerful… Like every plan he’s ever had, this one has gone completely awry. He has never felt so wretched in his entire life, though he suspects the next days will only worsen that particular feeling. 

“F-Father?” Nero asks, and Vergil realizes he’s clutched his shoulder hard.

“I’m sorry. I-I need to…” He should have moved a good minute ago. Now the roses are clawing their way up his throat, and he needs to make a dash for the bathroom, and Nero is on him and—

Vergil slams down his thoughts before they paralyze him, plucks Nero off from him and puts him right down on the sofa, then pushes himself off. He takes a single stride before his body arches in pain, the brutal stabbing sensation starting at his heel and jolting through him, tearing everything on its way up and stealing his sight. He hits the ground hard, and the shock echoes through his body in a dull, distant way, one more bruise in a sea of agony. The blue roses spill out, right there on his living room floors, rolling from his tongue as he coughs them. He can’t think, only heave and cough and spit, his vision blurred or blacked out. His ears ring, but Nero’s voice makes its way through, calling his name, and a small hand squeezes his shoulder. He struggles to say something, but the blue roses won’t stop coming. The ringing turns into pounding, hard and fast—no, wait, the pounding is real, it’s—

The door smashes in, cracking on its hinges, and a red coat blurs Vergil’s vision. Dante. Boots stomp right up to him, but Nero’s tiny feet interpose themselves, without care for the bloodied roses and thorns around them. Is… Is his child… trying to defend him from Dante? Vergil glances up, sees Nero’s spread out arms, and it’s a wonder he doesn’t burst into tears again. 

“Nero…” His hand crawls through the cemetery of blue roses until it touches the tiny ankle. “It’s… it’s all right.”

“Ya know, if you wanted blue roses to decorate your place, there were simpler ways.”

Dante’s traditional shit-eating grin is well in place, and Vergil instinctively reaches for his power and blue swords to put through his chest and make him share some of his pain. Nothing flicks into existence and he only feels more exhausted from the effort. Exhausted and humiliated at being found on the ground, half-curled up from the pain, his most recent offering of roses spread before him. He tries to push himself up, but slips and falls again. Dante jerks forward, but when he tries to go around Nero, the child steps in his way again.

“N-No!”

“Kid, c’mon.” Dante crouches down, grinning at Nero. He still looks young—younger than Vergil, his face spared the gaunt thinness inherent to parasitic trees—but the resemblance is unmistakable, and Vergil wonders if his son sees it. “Dontcha want to bring him to his bed, at least?”

“You won’t… you won’t take him away?” Nero asks, and the unmasked fear in his voice makes Vergil recoil in guilt. He does not want to leave Nero alone—not now, nor ever.

“Promise, kiddo. If he’s laying on the floor, he probably needs rest, don’t ya think?” 

Nero stares at him, his shoulders still tense. He’s ready to pounce, and while Dante’s being surprisingly rational in his explanation, Vergil doubts Nero is in the right mood for it. 

“Let him, Nero.” 

His voice is broken, as torn as the inside of his throat. He coughs, but the blue roses seem to have calmed for now at least. Nero turns to him, hesitates, then finally steps aside. Dante doesn’t waste a moment, scooping Vergil up like he weighs nothing at all—and that may not be so far from the truth. He’s warm and solid, and Vergil finds himself leaning into Dante and resting his forehead against his twin’s chest. His entire body is still throbbing with pain, but Dante is here now, he’s come as promised, and perhaps Vergil can rest at last.

###

A dull throb in his chest welcomes Vergil back to the world. Nothing abnormal there, not anymore, though it’s been a long time since it felt this… contained. These days, it’s usually more like even his fingernails are about to fall off. His sluggish mind tries to piece together what happened, if he collapsed… but no, he is in bed, not on the ground. And he distinctly remembers warmth against his cheek—Dante.

Vergil’s eyes flutter open and immediately land on his twin. 

Dante sits in a kitchen chair he brought over, its front legs kicked up, his back against the wall and his arms crossed. It seems he has learned to put a shirt under his red coat somewhere in the course of the last several years; in fact, he has a rather elaborate red jacket with black belts looped over it. This is more style than he’d have ever expected of his little brother.

He hasn’t noticed Vergil is awake yet; he’s too intent on Vergil’s feet—or rather, on the weight near his legs, child-sized. Has Nero been sitting next to him while he slept? The hint of a smile curves Vergil’s lips and it only widens once he recognizes what is happening: they are staring at one another in a silent contest, and Dante is pouting. He never had the patience for these things. 

“Give up, Dante,” he whispers, and that’s enough for Dante to glance his way. Vergil smirks. “You lose.”

Dante huffs, but his face splits into a grin. “I wasn’t—look, you gotta tell your kid to stop glaring at me! I know he’s your son and shit, but there’s some trademarks ya really don’t have to pass down!”

“Father!” 

Nero scrambles up the bed, to kneel closer to him. Vergil can still count on his fingers the number of times he’s dropped the ‘Mister’, and each and every one of them is a balm on his weary soul. Nero doesn’t ask him anything, but his questions are easy to read. He casts the most suspicious of glares Dante’s way, and a warm amusement suffuses Vergil. Slowly, he pushes himself up and into a sitting position. 

“How long did I stay out?”

“Almost an hour, and your little bud there has been pullin’ this face the whole time. Wouldn’t say a word.” Dante pushes himself off the wall and the chair lands with a clack. “Didn’t ya tell him shit?”

“I—” He hasn’t, no. Didn’t have the courage for it. Vergil glares at Dante, because he knows he’s being judged, and it’s not fair. Dante has no idea the kind of hell he and Nero have been through.

“I didn’t think things could get any more fucked up, but guess I was wrong.” He unfurls from his seat, and Vergil is stunned by how healthy Dante looks. He’s seen himself in the mirror too often, he’d forgotten what he was supposed to look like. Dante’s cheeks aren’t creased in like his and he seems to glow with easy energy. It’s the demon in him, Vergil knows. He used to have the same dangerous aura about himself, an almost imperceptible threat. “You tell him. I’ll go see what’s in your fridge.”

In his fr—how typical. Dante hasn’t even been in his house for an hour and he’s already digging for food. Vergil’s glad for the time alone with Nero, however, so he lets his twin go on his rampage. As soon as he’s out of the room, Nero turns to him and waits.

“This is my brother,” Vergil says, because that’s the simple part to explain. “We are twins. That’s why we look very alike.”

Understanding passes through Nero’s gaze, and he turns towards the door through which Dante left. “He has white hair, too.”

“Yes. Your grandfather also had white hair.” Nero’s has grown a fair bit since they last cut it. So has Vergil’s, really. All the way to his shoulders now. These are not the sort of details for which he’s had energy, recently. “Listen, Nero, you know I’ve been sick.”

Nero nods and he clenches the blankets in tiny fingers. He’s worried, even if he won’t tell Vergil. Even if he has remained a quiet, reserved child, Vergil has learned to sense his moods. He doesn’t know how to tell him that he’ll be gone soon, that Nero will have to start over with his overbearing, irresponsible brother. He trusts Dante to love Nero, yet he cannot imagine that they will easily get along and it pains him to inflict this hardship on the child. It’s not by choice, however. If he could stay… 

In the end, he decides Nero is perceptive and old enough to hear the truth directly.

“My ailment… I tried to cure it, but it didn’t work. I—It seems I only have a week left.” It escapes him in a whisper and saying it aloud feels like a weight has dropped into his stomach, like the very reality of it hurts more than the Qliphoth itself. Tears spring into Nero’s eyes, and Vergil reaches forward. His hand hover above his child’s shoulder. “C-Can I?”

Nero never replies, but his answer is no less clear. He scrambles back with a strangled cry of protest, climbing off the bed. By the time Vergil calls out after him, he's already at the door. His heart squeezes and he tries to follow, but his vision darkens the moment he stands. Vergil finds himself on his knees, panting, fighting back the painful stabbing at the bottom of his stomach and the constant dizziness. The slamming of Nero's door echoes through his ringing ears. He grits his teeth and pushes himself back up, fighting through the burning in his lungs and muscles as he so often has in the recent weeks, forcing himself to function even when his entire body demands rest. Hands on the wall to keep himself upright, he crawls towards Nero's room then slumps against his door. No walls split the kitchen, living room, and main corridor in his apartment, and he feels Dante's gaze trail him. He sets his burning hot forehead against the cold wooden door and shivers.

"Nero…" Faint sobbing drifts from inside and Vergil's resolve cracks. He swallows the lump in his throat and squeezes his eyes shut. "Listen to me. I—"

There is so much Vergil wants to say. When he looks back at his life, he sees death and pain and recklessness, broken hopes and shattered bonds and so many failures. He wonders if any of it has been worth living, if even the power and confidence derived from the Yamato and his demon blood can ever make up for the cold brutality of most of his life. But then there is Nero, and he knows no cost is too great for these blessed months together. He doesn't know any words to cover this feeling, but William Blake's work hovers at the edge of his mind, urging him on. _ Speak father, speak to your little boy, or else I shall be lost_.

"You're beautiful, Nero. I love you." It takes all his strength to say it louder than a whisper. He's so unused to this. Life has torn what he loves from him so often that voicing anything feels like cursing it.

The door creaks as it opens, sliding away from his forehead, and Vergil dares to look. Nero peeks out, eyes puffed and tears streaked red. His eyes are blue and perfect and Vergil forgets to breathe, forgets to even exist, so caught into them and his own boundless desire to see joy shine in them once again. Nero sniffs, leans back, and Vergil's heart clenches painfully as he prepares himself for his child to hide once more.

Nero instead launches himself forward, arms wrapping around Vergil's neck, and the shock draws a strangled sob out of Vergil. He presses a hand on his son's much smaller back and places his chin on Nero's head. He will never understand how he deserves a boy so sweet. Perhaps he doesn't—perhaps that is why life is tearing him away from Nero so quickly—but he cannot help but cling to him and wish he had eternity ahead of him, rather than a cruel week.

Nero doesn't pull away, not even to speak. "Don't leave."

If only he had a choice. He wants to stay, to see Nero grow and come out of his shell little by little, to see to his education and teach him swordfighting. 

"I'm sorry."

It’s all he has to offer. He cannot even hold Nero forever, not when his chest constricts painfully once more, heralding the inevitable return of the blue roses. Vergil steels himself and pulls Nero away, stomping down on his regrets as his son’s warmth leaves him.

“I called your uncle so he could take care of you, even after…” Vergil trails off. It’s too hard. He can't say it again. “We should pack your things and—”

“We ain’t going anywhere,” Dante interrupts. He’s leaning on the counter, a chicken leg in his hand, the rest of the yellow delivery box on the counter. “I’m not leaving you here alone.”

Vergil scowls at him. “Don’t be a fool. I don’t want—”

“Don’t care, bro.” Dante grins, and Vergil wishes he could stab him all over again. Watching him gesture with the chicken wing is more than he has patience for. “S’not like you can stop me from staying, is it? So we’ll be crashin’ this nice place and takin’ care of you until the end, and you might as well suck it up and accept it. B’sides, it’ll give Nero and I a couple of days to get to know each other. I bet the kid doesn’t want to leave now, right, Nero?”

Nero’s head jerks up and he looks between Dante and Vergil for a moment, before eagerly nodding at his uncle. Vergil can’t help but huff at how quickly these two started working against him, even if he’s glad they at least found one thing to agree on. As amusing as Nero’s initial distrust was, he’ll need Dante’s help, and Vergil would feel better leaving knowing they like one another.

Besides, he really has no desire to live out the rest of his days vomiting blue roses on his floor, alone in a cold, empty flat.

“Very well,” Vergil says, forcing the battered remains of his pride to come through and hide his relief. “I suppose you may take the couch for a few days.”

Something shifts in Dante’s grin—or rather, in his expression as a whole. It’s as if the smile spreads out, reaching his eyes and straightening his shoulders. It’s a subtle difference, and Vergil wonders at how he can perceive it despite their years apart. Can Dante read him just as easily and register the warmth spreading through him? Vergil looks away, jaw clenched and throat tight. It is a question too fraught for him to seek an answer, so only awkward silence follows Vergil’s acceptance.

It does not last long. The blue roses, as always, come tearing through him. This time, however, he has no need to hide. He spits them right there, bearing the pain as his world shrinks to the lacquered wood under him and the bloodied flower he ejects, then finds Nero waiting for it to end with a glass of water. The help almost shatters him all over again. No one has taken care of him since demons killed his mother and ripped their family apart, and his hands shake from the small kindness as he accepts the glass and drinks it all.

###

They wind up on the couch after Vergil suggests that Nero should show his uncle how good he is at reading. Nero sits in the middle, though he siddles closer to Vergil in order to keep some space between himself and Dante. The book is open in his lap and he goes even more slowly than usual, making absolutely sure he gets every word right. Vergil does his best to pay attention, but it’s hard for him to focus on anything but his burning skin and the feeling of something grinding against all of his bones, eroding him from inside. He’s curled up on the chest, a kaki mixer bowl squeezed between his knees and his chest to catch the next string of blue roses, his mind floating towards Dante despite his best intentions. His brother has slumped into the couch, one arm thrown over its back, and he’s completely absorbed by Nero, as if it is finally sinking in that this perfect child is theirs, an unexpected member of the family he will have to care for, and the joint enormity and pleasure of the task are becoming clear to him. He’s still smiling, and his fingers drum on his leg as he leans increasingly closer to Nero, and Vergil finds solace in the subtle tenderness of his expression. For all his faults, Dante already loves Nero and that is the most important part.

Vergil’s attention eventually slips away from Dante, too, his exhaustion taking over until Nero’s voice lulls him into sleep. Darkness has fallen outside when the lancing agony of blue roses crawling up his throat wakes him, and he bends over the bowl, bony fingers clinging to his edges as he heaves and coughs for several minutes. This particular bout lasts so long it leaves him trembling, and when he looks up from the bowl, he finds Dante holding it steady, kneeling in front of the couch. He’s not certain he would have managed to keep it upright on his own, so he says nothing, only wipes his mouth and glares at his twin, daring him to comment. Which, of course, Dante takes a challenge.

“You sound just like the wild cats prowlin’ ‘round my shop when they gotta get rid of a furball, ya know. Lemme know if you want the same scritches behind your ears.”

“I’ll kill you.” 

Vergil whispers the threat, as if he had any way to do so now, with his strength crumbling. Dante grins even wider, however, and that is enough for Vergil to seek revenge. He yanks the bowl out of Dante’s grip and flings its content at his twin’s face, and the surprised cry of protest is worth the sudden pain in his arms and the drain on his energy. Dante falls on his ass, and Vergil smirks at him as he wipes his face of blue petals, blood, and the mixed content of his stomach. At Nero’s gasp and his long “ewww”, Dante bursts out laughing.

“Kinda asked for that one I guess.” He shakes the worst of it out of his hair, then pushes himself back up on his feet. “Gonna go clean up before the pizza gets here.”

“You… called?”

“Yup. Your kid’s got a good memory. Knew all the info I needed and shit.”

Nero offers them a shy smile, but under it he’s bristling with pride and Vergil can only smile back. He must have learned the address and phone number from all the time they asked for delivery recently. 

Dante slips away to the washroom, and Vergil cannot help but slide closer to Nero and bend down. “Do you like him?”

Nero’s frown worries him at first—not that he could blame the child—but Nero eventually nods. It’s better this way. 

“Good.” He meets Nero’s eyes and smirks. “You’re already very responsible, Nero. Dante will need your help. He has a tendency towards bad decisions.” Perhaps that is hypocritical, considering the path he has walked, but Vergil ignores that particular fact. “You will keep him out of trouble, yes?”

Nero offers him his most solemn face and nods eagerly. His eyes are still wet and Vergil wonders if he should have avoided the reminder that he will soon be gone, but for all that he looks about to cry, Nero has set his shoulders straighter and raised his chin. He is so mature already—more than he ought to be, at his age. At least it will help him through this.

“Thank you. I will sleep better tonight.” 

Vergil leans back as the doorbell buzzes and Dante walks out, back in the uniform Vergil knows best: bare-chested under his red coat. He casts Nero and him a suspicious look and mouths something about conspiring as he goes to answer. 

It doesn't take long for the smell of pizza to fill the apartment, and Vergil drifts off, memories of their youth clogging his mind. Dante had wanted every single meal ever to be pizza and he'd been very loud about that desire. Vergil always fought with him about it—there was no way he would let his annoying little brother get everything he wanted—and after a while, the point of Dante's demands had no doubt been to anger Vergil, just as Vergil refused on principle more than any hatred of the meal itself. Does Dante expect him to say something now? He is pulling on pizza slices, watching the cheese stretch as he tears them from the main pizza and places them in plates Nero is holding for him. Three plates, Vergil notes.

"I can't eat that," he says, and Dante's eyes sparkle. He has definitely been hoping for a redux, then, and it is no coincidence that pizza was his pick for delivery. "Don't be silly, Dante. No one cares that it's pizza. My throat's more sliced up than my enemies were once I’d finished with them. I've needed liquefied food for a while now."

"Dang, bro." 

He doesn't elaborate on that, but his gaze sweeps the counter and finds the blender. Before long, Dante has shoved two slices into it, along with tomato sauce from the cupboard, and for once Vergil's stomach clenches from revulsion instead of nausea. He manages to convince himself until the very last moment that Dante has no intention of actually hitting the blend button, that he is simply enjoying the disgusted looks Vergil throws at him, but the truth is that his twin does not seem to consider his behaviour even remotely strange. He is humming to himself as he starts the blender and watches it reduce the pizza slices into a gruesome pinkish paste, then pours the mixture into a glass. Dante even gets Nero to find him a straw and sticks it into the blended pizza even though it is far too thick for this method of consumption, and when he presents Vergil with his meal, he has the biggest, most childish grin Vergil has ever seen on him. 

It is incongruous and absurd, but the utterly ridiculous offer belies a kindness that jolts through Vergil, leaving him warm and thankful. A sharp laugh tears out of his pained throat and he wraps his hands around the hot glass of pizza paste, marvelling at the strange turns of his life.

“You are disgusting, little brother,” he states.

Dante only shrugs and extends a spoon for him. “Pizza’s always good, no matter the shape.”

“Foolishness.” 

He still accepts the spoon, and once Nero climbs back into the couch by his side, he carefully starts eating. Vergil isn’t hungry—he’s in too much pain for that, truly—but Dante and Nero are both watching him, so he forces the paste down his throat. In a blend like this, the taste of tomato and cheese overtake most of the others, and it isn’t as revolting as he expected. Swallowing any of it remains a struggle, but Vergil knows every bite helps him stay awake and alive a little longer, and as long as Nero is with him, he is determined to do his utmost to extend his life.

As the evening progress, Vergil continues to struggle with the reality of Dante’s presence. It defies all logic that he is somehow here, in his apartment, casually existing alongside Vergil with no sword and no animosity. A part of him wonders if he has not died, when he collapsed onto the floor earlier, and what unfolds now is a twisted form of paradise, the best version of his future he could conceive for himself—one, ironically, where he is no less dying or in pain. It feels like the only way to explain why every time he manages to focus, he finds his brother and his son playing games together. Once, he listens with a pained smile as Dante tries to guess what Nero is drawing for him, each suggestion more ridiculous than the first until Nero explodes at him that it is very clearly a hat, and certainly not “a snake which has eaten an elephant”, as Dante has suggested. Vergil chokes down a laugh—he knows where Dante has gotten that idea and must have assumed Vergil had shared _ Le petit prince _with Nero.

Nero’s bedtime comes too soon to his liking and for once there is someone in the house to enforce it. Nero pouts when Vergil suggests he should rest, but once Dante acts thrilled at the idea of seeing his favourite pyjama pants, the child’s reluctance vanishes. It is impressive how quickly his brother has managed to find Nero’s good side, but that is precisely why Vergil has called him, isn’t it? Dante is easy to love. 

What is even more impressive, perhaps, is how easily Dante loves, too… how quickly he has forgiven Vergil. It is a difficult fact to accept, so when Dante returns to the main living space and sits his ass on the counter, his typical smile gone and his arms crossed, Vergil welcomes the return of a strained tension between them. This, he decides, is much more natural.

“Ya really dropped a pile o’ shit on my shoulders again, didn’t ya? I ain’t meant to take care of kids.” 

“There’s… no one else.” Vergil wonders if he would have called Dante, had that been the case, but it’s a moot point. There are a lot of questions Dante isn’t asking, and he is too exhausted to wait for his twin to decide which ones matter the most. “I found out about him a year ago. He was in an orphanage. It… it was not a good place.” He closes his eyes and takes a rattling breath, fighting back his guilt and anger at Nero’s early life. “Always ask before you touch him, especially his hair. Give him his space. He is quiet and wary but very perceptive, and he likes routines or anything that makes him feel in control.”

“Right. He’s basically you, but tinier and more scared.”

The truth of it is a punch in Vergil’s guts, and before he can formulate a response, his body does for him. It bends over as more blue roses tear up his throat, ripping a pained scream out of him before they block his mouth entirely. It’s been a while since a group this painful has come up and Vergil loses track of everything but the mixing bowl and the burning pain for several minutes. He forces himself not to count how many roses make it out, to just breathe whenever he can and cough and hack and heave the rest of the time. When it’s finally over, he stares at the content of the bowl and it occurs to him that the roses are the same blue as Nero’s eyes. They are beautiful, for all that they are deadly.

“Ya ever gonna tell me what the fuck is all that flowery bullshit, by the way?”

Dante’s voice feels like it comes from miles away and Vergil must make a conscious effort to filter it past the ringing of his ears and parse the words. He wipes his mouth and pushes his bangs away, allowing himself a moment to catch his breath and consider his answer.

“They are from a tree growing inside of me.”

“A tree,” he repeats, leaning back. “A tree’s just growing inside of you and there ain’t anything you can do. Why ain’t ya tearin’ it out? You’ll heal from it.”

Vergil closes his eyes. It would have been too simple for Dante to accept that answer without questioning it. He doesn’t want to explain, knows too well what his twin will think of him, if he does. So he doesn’t reply, only clings to the stinking mixing bowl in silence, the aftertaste in his mouth as bitter as his thoughts. He’s uncertain how much time passes before Dante loses patience. He huffs, jumps down the counter, and yanks the bowl out of his hands. 

“Bedtime for you, too.”

Relief and disappointment wash through Vergil. Part of him almost wishes Dante had torn the truth out of him, that he’d cared enough to. But the two of them have always been terrible at this, and he does not have the strength to admit to his faults any more than Dante has the strength to demand it out of him. He stays silent as his brother helps him up and guides him back to his bedroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry to say that we jokingly call this one the "breather chapter" because of the much needed relief Dante's sense of humour provides.


	5. Clearing the Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dante spends the week tending to Vergil as his health decays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW alcohol in this one.
> 
> Two important reminders for y'all:
> 
> 1) You can ask me the ending at any time. You can ask me in the comments below, or in twitter DMs, or on Discord if you know me from there. Anywhere. It's truly fine.
> 
> 2) We officially do not recommend reading this chapter at work. It's a very NSFW Chapter for all of you criers. :]

Dante has stopped counting how often he's imagined receiving news from Vergil out of the blue. It's rare that a week passes without him reliving his brother's fall into Hell—sometimes it plagues his dreams, sometimes it follows him even when he's awake. Most of the time, he knows Vergil is gone forever, dead or trapped in Hell. When he imagines him alive, he figures some new demon tower will raise out of nowhere and Vergil will stand on top of it, daring him to climb. But there are days where his dreams are kinder and Vergil simply walks in, or calls him, or shows up in a park and invites him to sit and talk. 

When Vergil did call, Dante could barely believe it. None of the scenarios his mind has conjured over the years remotely resemble reality, and his brain had hit the brakes big time before it fought with itself trying to figure out how he felt about it. Vergil contacting him. Vergil alive at all. Vergil with a fucking kid. And to top it off, Vergil dying? T'was all a bit too much for him. He took a whole ass day before he could accept he wasn’t gonna wake up and find the note with the address gone. 

Now he’s staring at his sleeping nephew, and this entire thing doesn’t feel any more real than on day one. Dante doesn’t understand how he’s wound up in the responsible caretaker position, nor why anyone thinks that’s a wise idea. Then again, Vergil can barely keep himself awake, so Dante’s more of a last-resort solution. This is still more cleaning than he’s done in his whole damn life, but most of it for puke and blood and for some reason that makes it way less boring. There isn’t much else to do when everyone’s sleeping, and being in Vergil’s home makes him too restless for the constant napping that used to be his routine. It has nothing to do with how every time he closes his eyes, he sees his emaciated twin or hears the wet coughs that wrack him every time he pukes one of those blue roses.

Every day is much of the same. Nero wakes up and moves about the house like a ghost until Dante notices his presence. The first time he’d prepared himself a whole bowl of cereal with bananas in them and was sitting on the floor, back against the counter as he ate them. After that, Dante makes sure to be more attentive and asks him if he needs any help. Most days the answer is no. Nero is quiet and independant, but at least he no longer glares at Dante non-stop. He just does his thing, which mostly consists of preparing simple meals and eating before padding his way into Vergil’s room and watching him sleep. It’s obvious he is worried and Dante can’t blame him. Vergil looks like shit.

His twin has lost so much weight they almost don’t look alike at all anymore. He has melted until toned muscles turned into bone-tight skin, and while they’ve both always been pale, he’s hit the ghost-skin level of white. The weirdest is probably his hair, though. It’s grown so long it firmly reaches his shoulders, and he no longer bothers sleeking it back. It feels wrong, the way long bangs will hide most of his face when he sleeps, though Dante supposes that conceals part of the thinness, at least. Not that anyone could miss it at this point.

Vergil sleeps a lot, but Dante makes a point to bring him to the living room every day. He’s moved the couch so it gets him a better view of the open space, and this way he can easily find them whenever he drifts into consciousness. Nero always interrupts whatever game they have going when his father stirs, and it breaks Dante’s heart to watch them interact. This kid has completely changed Vergil, softening the sharp broken edges left by their shattered youth into blunt kindness, and it’s several levels of unfair that he’s on a fast track to death. It doesn’t make any sense, either—or rather, Vergil’s keeping all the explanations to himself, as usual. For all that Nero doesn’t like touch (he sure hasn’t let Dante near yet), he climbs onto his dad faster than lightning, settling against him to read. Vergil’s whispered corrections when he makes mistakes are weaker every day, and by the fifth day he’s rarely even awake enough to make them. It seems he can barely do more than eat, drink, sleep, and vomit.

Dante starts to question his decision to stay. Nero’s growing pale, too, and a little more quiet with every passing day. Perhaps it would have been better to say goodbye earlier, when Vergil was healthier, but the idea of leaving his twin behind sickens him. He and Vergil have already endured the worst moments of their lives alone. He can’t make this one more, no matter how hard for Nero and him. Instead, he tries to make it easier on the kid and give him every choice he can—play or read, stay home or come to the grocery, eat chinese takeout or make pastas, hold his dad’s vomit bowl or get him a glass of water, and so on. He asks Nero for help when Vergil needs new blankets, or something to wipe his mouth, or anything that Dante can't bring himself to do yet (sometimes it's too much, to see Vergil in this state, and all he wants is to flee). Nero never refuses. He's a good kid, and Dante struggles to accept that soon he'll kinda be _ his _good kid.

His brain eschews that particular reality as much as it can. He doesn’t want to think about it and for the first five days, he succeeds. He buries it under more immediate concern until it becomes impossible to ignore—until Vergil’s whole home stinks of sickness and death, and his brother cannot even sit up anymore. He has to be turned to the side when the coughing fits come, held up as his body shivers and contorts to heave out blue roses. When Dante’s hands clasp around frail wrists and his brother’s every bone dig into him with every movement, when he can feel only the fragile, crumbling body under his palms, then the denial escapes him. 

Vergil is dying, and they will be lucky if he has a full day left.

Suddenly the drawn curtains and stinking room become too much. Dante can’t breathe in here, can’t look at Vergil or handle Nero. A weight presses onto his chest, stealing his breath, crushing his ability to think, and he’s been there enough over the past years to know he needs to move or he’ll break down. Since he can’t break down with everyone countin’ on him, Dante strides across the darkened bedroom and flings the curtains open, inhaling deeply as light washes over him. Vergil moans at the sudden influx and Nero interrupts his reading, gazing up at Dante from his seat on the bed, by Vergil’s side. 

“Had enough of all the gloom, and this room smells like a backed-up toilet. Ya know it’s bad when it’s worse than my place.” His cheer is forced, but it doesn’t matter. "What d'ya think, Nero? Wanna clean up a bit?"

Nero nods eagerly at the suggestion and slaps the cover of his book close. Vergil's tired blue eyes move between them and a smile flitters across his face. Despite its briefness, it manages a level of smugness Dante can only be impressed by. 

"Dante… cleaning. I must already be dead."

Dante tsks and spreads his arm. "What can I say? You're a sweaty, stinky mess, and that ain't right. You're too much of a pretentious prick to die like that."

A choked sound escapes Vergil—probably his best approximation of pained laughter. "I suppose so."

"Deal, then! We'll groom ya right back to health." He claps his hands and turns his attention to Nero. "Your first task is to get some water going in the bath. Make it warm: we'll be a while. Then ya can open all the windows around, let some fresh air in until it gets too cold for you. Once all that's done, put new blankets and pillows on the couch. We'll be movin' your dad there. Think you got that, Nero?"

Nero shines with determination now, and he scampers off without waiting. Dante watches him turn the corner, out of the room, wondering if the kid needs the distraction as much as he does. From what Vergil said, he'd never really had a good caretaker, and now he's stuck watching his father dwindle into death. It can't be easy on him. Dante first makes sure to get all the fresh bedding and pillows out of the cupboard and onto the ground where Nero can reach it, then he moves to the bed and picks up Vergil as gently as he can. It still draws a hiss of pain from his twin.

"Dante…"

"Yeah?"

Vergil leans more heavily on him but adds nothing. This isn’t exactly the first time, so Dante doesn’t press him for more. He brings his twin to the washroom, kicks the toilet seat down, and then sits Vergil as upright as he can. Vergil’s eyes flutter open and his fingers clench the toilet under him. He stares at the water rising in the bath, then tilts his head back towards Dante. 

“I cannot…” He gestures briefly at his clothes.

“Let me.” 

Dante regrets the words as soon as they’re out. He should’ve made another joke, something a bit less raw, but it’s too late now. He catches Vergil’s fever-glazed eyes for a moment, but he can’t take the gratitude and confusion in them, so he just moves on and starts pulling off Vergil’s left sleeve. 

Neither of them speak a single word as Dante slowly gets his brother out of his grimy clothes, leaving them in a dirty pile on the ceramic floor. Nero regularly comes by to check the water and to add a dangerous amount of bubble soap to it. He flits in and out of the room as he takes care of the tasks Dante set before him, and each of his appearances draw a thin smile out of Vergil. They’re lucky enough that Vergil doesn’t need to spit out any flowers while Dante gets him naked, but he keeps the mixing bowl nearby just in case anyway, placing it by the bath’s side before he sets Vergil down in the foam-covered water. It goes up to his chest (Dante can practically count every rib and he hates it) and the temperature’s perfect. Vergil brings his knees close, wrapping stick-like arms around them, and waits. Dante chucks off his t-shirt so he doesn’t have to worry about it getting wet, finds the bath sponge, dips it in water, then gets a shitton of soap on it. 

“Wait.”

Nero’s voice startles him. He’s standing in the doorway, hands twisted in his shirt.

“You wanna go in too, buddy?” Dante asks.

He’s rewarded by a very eager nod and a shy smile. Nero immediately pulls the shirt, then fumbles with his pants. Dante resists his urge to help while the kid gets naked and climbs into the bath, behind his dad—last he checked, Nero still prefers to be touched as little as possible. He snipes the sponge out of Dante’s hands, squeezing it tight, and raises his chin. 

“You have to say what you do, Mister Dante.” It sounds like he’s actually scolding Dante, and it might have been vaguely insulting if it wasn’t so cute. 

Nero proceeds to lead by example. He declares very loudly that he is about to put his hand on the nape of Vergil’s neck and lets a second slide by before he does so. Next, he tells Vergil he will rub his shoulder with the sponge and, holding himself steady with the just-placed hand, he begins a methodical cleaning of his father’s shoulder. A shiver runs up Vergil’s spine and his lips move in a slow, stunned uttering of Nero’s name. Kid’s clumsy, sometimes dropping the sponge back into the water, but he works with a tender sort of serious, like nothing else matters more in the world. Vergil’s gotta feel it, because before long the first tear is rolling down his cheeks. He doesn’t sob, his shoulders don’t shake, but as Nero’s narration stretches on, more and more tears stream down. Vergil is carefully keeping his head down and behind the curtain of his too-long hair, as if he could conceal them from Dante. 

Once the whole back is clean and rinsed, Nero stops and extends the sponge back to Dante. “This is how. You have to say what you do.”

“Gotcha, kid,” Dante says, and his voice is rougher than he’d prefer, like the words could barely make it past the lump in his throat. He accepts the offered sponge and Nero sits back into the water. He stares at Dante, clearly ready to evaluate his performance and correct him, if need be.

Like father, like son, huh?

Dante sets to work, explaining each step before he performs them, up to and including "I will now shove those fancy bubbles in your face", which gets him a cry of protest from Nero and a glare from Vergil. Not a very intimidating one, with the white bubbles clinging to his cheeks and chin, and Dante just grins back. He doesn't tell them part of the goal is to conceal Vergil's deathly thinness, that as he manipulates his twin skeletal body, lifting arms and legs to clean him, the inescapable reality is sinking in harder than ever. His hands are shaking and his heart’s squeezing makes him nauseous. He's not equipped to handle this level of intimacy and vulnerability from his cold, dangerous twin. Dante clings to the foam he put on Vergil's face and the glare it earned him, to Nero, who settled back to the front of Vergil and is now sculpting animals and other things in the foam and making his father guess what they are, to the quiet family moment this could be, if it wasn’t so seeped with death. The cracks in his heart are spreading, but Dante knows this was a good idea—Vergil looks more awake now than he has over the last three days—so he moves on to the next step and finds himself a pair of scissors. When he sits back down with them, Vergil casts him a wary glance.

“Bro, I ain’t lettin’ ya steal my looks,” Dante says, lifting Vergil’s wet bangs with the scissors. “S’not like ya manage to pull it off even remotely well, anyway.”

A rattling exhale escapes Vergil. “Neither do you.”

Dante’s sharp laugh startles Nero, who splashes in the foam and destroys his structure. He stares at the two of them quietly, eyes wide with fear, and Dante notices how long the kiddo’s hair got, too. “Hey Nero, I’m givin’ your dad a bit of a haircut. Ya want one too?”

Nero pales, his shoulders hunch, and he shakes his head without looking up at Dante. Damn, but Vergil was right about the hair thing. Kid really doesn’t like thinking about his own.

“Suit yourself. Lemme know if ya change your mind.”

Dante helps Vergil spin so his back is facing him and starts by cleaning Vergil’s hair. His stomach clenches painfully as clumps of it stick to his fingers every time he runs them through. He tries to be as gentle as possible and is quietly thankful they both inherited their mother’s thick hair, as it’ll leave Vergil with plenty even after these losses. Every now and then, Vergil lets out little _ hmm _ sounds, and while at first Dante mistakes them for stifled moans of pain, it doesn’t match how relaxed his twin’s shoulders grow. Vergil likes it, this skull-rub, and Dante is more than happy to comply. 

It’s very quiet in the washroom as he rinses the shampoo out of Vergil’s hair. Nero moves slowly as if not to disturb his surroundings, Vergil hasn’t had a coughing fit yet (a miracle; perhaps it’s all the humidity), and Dante has toned down his verbal explanations to a whisper. Everything smells of soap and peace, and while they all know it can’t last, the three of them allow it to stretch on. They breathe it in, a balm on their weary hearts.

Vergil’s eventual full-body shudder breaks it off. The water has cooled down enough that it’s not keeping him warm anymore, and there’s no more time to waste enjoying the present. Dante splits the hair as best as he can. He knows he’ll be doing a shit job of this haircut, but it doesn’t really matter. He snips off Vergil’s pad first, then cuts the extra inches of hair, doing his best to keep everything the same length. That’s probably a mistake, but he’s got no clue how to do this shit, so this’ll be it. Once he’s gotten rid of all the extra length around, he carefully reduces the bangs so they remain no longer hide his eyes. Vergil’s eyes are closed, and Dante almost thinks he’s fallen asleep, but when he sets the scissors done, his twin lifts his hand out of the water and moves shaky fingers to the tip of his wet hair.

“I bet… you ruined it,” he whispers.

“It’ll all look the same anyway once I do…” He moves his fingers through the hair, slicking it back as Vergil always did. “... this! Now ya look like your usual prim self.”

“You’re… an idiot, brother.”

And yet, Dante has never heard the word ‘brother’ infused with so much love. He smiles even as his throat tightens and his heart shatters, and places a hand on Vergil’s shoulders. “Let’s get you outta there and into real clothes.”

Dressing Vergil up is as silly and pointless as the rest, but he abides by it and allows Dante and Nero to help him slip into slim pants (Dante hates how loose they look anyway, now), his sleeveless vest, and the bright blue coat he’s always loved. They’re forced to stop halfway through, a long string of thorns and roses crawling up and out of Vergil, the sickness reclaiming its due as the central axis around which their lives revolve, but Dante just wipes Vergil’s mouth after and keeps going as if nothing happened. He wants to pretend, even if only for an extra hour, because he can feel himself unraveling with every passing moment, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do once he hits bottom.

As it turns out, the bottom is much the same as before Vergil returned into his life. Dante manages to hold on for most of the day, but once Nero is asleep and Vergil has collapsed in his fitful state on the couch, wrapped in blankets despite his fever—once Dante has no one to pretend _ for _anymore—he breaks. 

It’s a quiet sort of breaking at first: he slips out into the cold without a coat, hits the closest liquor store, and buys himself some courage. Several bottles of it. And kinda proceeds to drink them faster than he ought to, sitting by Vergil’s couch, blue roses both dried and more recent scattered around him. It’s unwise, but then again, his twin is on a fast track for death and he won’t get to be irresponsible once that happens, not with Nero around. Dante just doesn’t have it in him to smile and pretend everything’s good and clean, that a fucking haircut can solve this or that he hasn’t basically spent the afternoon dressing up a corpse, that a chunk of him isn’t dying with the brother curled up on a couch behind him, eaten from inside by a tree.

“This is bullshit,” he mutters, and the sound of his own voice bolsters him. “Ya just… dumped all this on me. S’always like that with you. You just—show up with problems and I gotta fix ‘em and then I’m left alone with myself. I fucking hate it, Vergil.” 

He’s only got the one bottle left now, and he knows he should make it last, but fuck that. Dante tilts his head back and takes a long draw from it, letting the alcohol burn through him and the ground tilt under his ass. It’s his night, he’s decided, and he needs to numb the pain snaking through him as much as he can. Alcohol goes in, feelings go out.

“At least the Temen-ni-gru netted me a cool sword. What’s it this time? A _ nephew_! Like I’m any good taking care of kids, like I’ll have anything worth saying when this kid asks about the kind of person his dad is. And fuck, you won’t even explain why we gotta endure all of this. I wish…” Dante huffs and rubs his face. He should shut up, but it’s not like anyone’s listening. “You’re still such a stranger. I don’t know you and I’ve been grieving you for years and I’m gonna have to do it all over again, and ya ain’t even giving me answers to make it easier.”

“The demon tree is called a Qliphoth.” 

Vergil’s voice startles him. It’s quiet and raspy, every word an obvious struggle, and Dante’s cheeks flush as he wonders how long his brother has been listening. Vergil goes on. 

“It devours human blood and grants demonic power in exchange. I… ate its seed.”

Of course. Why _ wouldn’t _Vergil eat that stupid seed? What plan could possibly be reckless and dangerous enough to keep his damn twin from trying it, if the reward is more of his goddamn power? Dante slams the bottle on the ground. “Right! Just fling the human parts of you away, why don’t ya? S’not like it has a point or anything. I can’t believe you fucking—”

A skeletal hand touches his shoulder, stopping him short.

“Let me finish.” Vergil’s tone hovers halfway between snapping and pleading. He pauses again, and Dante hears every ragged breath in the ensuing silence. “For it to work, I had to give up… human connections. I ate the seed, then I—I met Nero. The tree was fine until I refused to trade that love away… to trade it for power.” 

Dante freezes. He’s seen how Vergil is around Nero, how much he loves him. Now he knows the answer to his question—the limit to Vergil’s quest for power. To think he’s found it too late…

“I can tear the tree out, Dante. I’d live. But it’s rooted in my love for Nero, and it would—it—I can live, but I wouldn’t love him anymore. That… I cannot accept.” His uneven breathing turns into ragged sobs and Dante doesn’t need to turn to know his brother is crying. He doesn’t _ want _to turn and confirm it—by now, Vergil’s tears are more difficult to accept than his death. “I was a fool. I see it now. But it’s too late and I would rather—rather die than to wake up one morning and not… not love him with every inch of my soul. I hope… that is something you can understand.”

Dante’s skull is buzzing and he stares ahead. How the fuck is he supposed to digest that? He wishes he had some big demon foe to rip into pieces, just to vent the frustration. He’s finally found Vergil again—the one he knows from his youth, stiff and prideful and _ loving_, and that very love is killing him. Dante’s not so far away from his thirties and he’s never really asked much out of life, but fuck does he want to mend his relationship with Vergil, to get to have his twin by his side again. Nero’s cute and he knows he’ll cherish the kid—already kinda does—but watching Vergil die is reopening deep scars in him. Maybe he shouldn’t have drank that much. Too late now. He takes another go at the bottle.

“Vergil…” He’s not sure what to add and his voice trails off.

“I know. Some days I expect the irony to kill me before these roses do.” Bony fingers thread through Dante’s hair, surprising him, and he stiffens as Vergil lets them rest on the top of his head. “I’m sorry. I only… only ever wanted to…” 

Does it even matter anymore, what Vergil had been thinking? Dante stares at his near-empty bottle, and his twin’s fingers through his hair feel like they’re burning him. He can’t decide if it’s best to know, when it doesn’t lead anywhere.

“S’fine, bro, forget it,” he mutters. Someone kinder might give him absolution. Vergil’s on his deathbed and all that shit, after all, but Dante’s already allowing him to die in peace by taking Nero in. He doesn’t have it in him to act like he’ll ever understand his quest for power. “Ya fucked up. Ain’t nothing to do about it.”

Vergil doesn’t respond. The silence stretches on long enough for Dante to empty the bottle. It’s a mistake, though: when he tilts his head back to drink, he feels his brother’s fingers in his hair and his lungs expand at the touch. It’s unfair, that he can’t manage to stay mad, that every hint of caring from Vergil digs its claws into his heart. It’d be easier to watch him die if he didn’t still love him so fucking much.

“Dante.” 

Vergil’s voice is raspy and weak. These days, every word out of his mouth sounds like it requires a battle. He’s started to choose them, lapsing into silence and pointing whenever he can. It’s strange. Vergil was never one to keep his (usually overbearing) opinions inside. So when he speaks again, Dante knows he means it, and it makes it that much harder to hear. 

“Thank you.”

###

Willpower carries Vergil to the next morning.

He knows it’s his last. It’s surprising how little it seems to bother him, now that he’s standing at the edge. It’s almost a relief; the pain has become too much, sapping away what little joy he still had in life, and he’s had a blessed last day. The last week may be a blurr, but he remembers the bath and the haircut, the depths of love Nero and Dante have shown him. It hurt the way sudden relief does, a brutal and cathartic discovery he could barely cope with. Then all of that was gone, and Vergil can’t tell if the constant pain washed it away, or if he’s finally found some peace. It doesn’t matter. Every inch of him is torn agony—the roots have even pierced his skin in places, reaching out into the world—and he is ready to go.

That’s what he tells himself, at least. Then Nero climbs on his chest, and even though his muscles and lungs scream at the extra weight, Vergil manages a smile and fights to hang on a little longer. Just a few seconds more, he promises himself, just so he can memorize his face. If only Nero could smile at him now the way he sometimes did… That’s what Vergil wants to remember last, impossible though it is. 

Dante is hovering nearby, silent. Perhaps he's said all he needed yesterday. Vergil wonders if he should add something. He thanked him, but does that remotely covers all the last week has meant to Vergil? How he's never imagined Dante could care for him in this way, that they could form a tiny family again, however fractured—never imagined that his fall into Hell had impacted him so deeply, either?

"Dante..." 

He wants to tell him he loves him, too, that being ripped away from him when they were boys had broken him in ways he still didn't understand. He's in so much pain, though, and he's never been good with feelings.

Dante grins at him—always the shit eating grin, even when his eyes shine strangely—and he shakes his head. "I know."

There are a gazillion times when they did not understand each other, when they should have used more words and reached out, but this is not one of them. Vergil nods. For once, silence and understanding go together. 

Vergil closes his eyes. It's such a relief to finally bridge that gap.

He coughs, trying to get rid of some of the clogging in his airways. It’s pointless. By now, the blue roses are growing into them as if they’ve always belonged, clinging to his insides. He can almost feel them burgeon and bloom but he doesn’t have the energy to push them out anymore. It’s over; his body is theirs.

He still has one goodbye, however.

“Nero…” His voice is so stilted, twisted by the thorns through his vocal cords. Any minute now. He can barely keep his eyes open anymore. But his boy is there, and there are some things Vergil has never told him. “I’m… going now, Nero.”

Tiny fingers clutch the border of his sleeveless shirt. Tears fill Nero’s eyes. He’s trying so hard not to cry, his boy.

“Listen…” Every word is going to cost him, and now that he’s here, floating at the edge of death, grounded to his life by little else but pain and his love for Nero, Vergil wishes he’d started speaking earlier. He will never get to tell Nero that he has been the most beautiful gift of his life, that loving him has been worth every moment of pain, that he hopes Nero will one day love someone—anyone—as much as Vergil loves him. No… he has to cut to what matters. “I love you, Nero. You… deserve the world. So take it.”

The tears Nero has been holding back come pouring down now, landing on Vergil's chin and neck. They are wet and cold against his feverish dried skin. Vergil gathers his strength to lift his fingers, reaching for Nero. He stops an inch away from him. Tears and encroaching darkness muddle his sight.

"Nero… can I touch it? Your hair. One last time…" 

He can't see much anymore, but his son's nod is vigorous. Vergil slides his fingers through soft and fluffy hair. He revels in the lightness of it, focusing on it as a blue rose unfurls into his mouth, blooming, forcing his lips apart. His sight has faded now, leaving nothing but the numbed softness of Nero's hair on the tip of his fingers. It's a good last memory, he thinks, then his hand goes limp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...
> 
> Come back tomorrow for Chapter 6 : "Endings"


	6. Endings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Qliphoth blooms in full.

Vergil floats into nothingness. He is apart from time, in a space he does not recognize, his mind a comforting blank. Nothing clings to him here, no fear of the future, of demons finding him, hunting him. It’s a strange peace, one that brings him no joy in itself, only restfulness. 

His mind is free, but his body isn't. He can see it before him. Great roots run through it, intertwined together, clad in a grey bark and bearing immense power. The tree digs into his heels and pierces in and out of his legs as it climbs up his body, wrapping around his chest and arms, threading itself through his very being. The Qliphoth is him, and he is the Qliphoth. How strange, to stare at his own body, finally freed from the pain. He has no physicality here—wherever _ here _is—and his mind feels clearer than ever before.

Death, it turns out, is more peaceful than he’d anticipated. Vergil takes stock of his surroundings, of the immensity he floats in. A great tree extends from his body, stretching ever upward, white branches slicked with blood rising into the infinite sky. It plunges down, too, ever darker as it splits into thousands of smaller roots, each digging into darkness, fading away from his sight. 

Not all roots vanish, however. Several twist upon one another, forming a trunk-like structure which encases two figures. He drifts closer, drawn by the pulsing red light emanating from it, mixed with hints of a softer blue. This, he understands, is the heart of the tree, moreso than his own body above. The knowledge slips into his brain, unexplained, but he does not doubt it—not with the way the roots and branches all spin around this place, as if it’s the center of their universe, its gravity pulling at them.

The two figures are familiar, too. On one side is him—a very specific version of him, however. He has adopted his full demon form, cylindrical horns sweeping off his head, wings snapped open, thick scaly skin protecting a blue core. The roots have pierced its center, plunging into his heart. Dozens of them have found purchase into the devil form, wrapping around his ankles and forearms and digging into its flesh mercilessly. Vergil cannot help but look away; this is the manifestation of his power, and he cannot abide to see it reduced in such a fashion.

On the other side of his demon form is Nero. He floats in a translucent, pulsing red cocoon partially wrapped in a long gnarly stem covered in blue roses and thorns. The rose bush has curled around the cocoon, gripping the roots trying to pry their way through, running the entire length of the few who are inside and have reached Nero. Vergil immediately moves closer, and the roses slither closer to one another protectively, tightening over the roots as if to choke them.

_ “Power or humanity… You cannot have it both ways.” _

M’s words resonate through him, and he understands what this is. The Qliphoth feeds from one to empower the other. It devours human blood—human love—to create demonic strength.

Except. This isn’t it at all, is it?

Has he grown any more powerful over the last year? His healing slowed until it stopped entirely, his devil trigger is long gone, and he cannot even summon swords of energy anymore. From the moment the blue roses started spilling out of his mouth, he has gradually lost all forms of power, leaving him a weakened husk. His love for Nero, however… That has only grown.

Was it all a lie, then? Did the tree reverse his source of nutrient, feeding off his demonic power to allow his love for Nero to flourish? Have all of these feelings been… fake? A tremble passes within the tree as the thought hits him and several blue roses fall from their stem, drifting down into oblivion. Behind, the Qliphoth’s roots hungrily snake in deeper into the protective cocoon. Vergil stills, his thoughts blank as his fear rises. 

Power or humanity. He cannot have both. The Qliphoth demands one.

All that matters, then, is which one he is willing to give away.

He knew which when he first set down this path. His human heart is a weakness, a source of hesitation and vulnerability. He has strived his entire life to control and excise it, determined to let nothing stand in his way as he honed himself. It is foolishness to abandon now, and he cannot explain how utterly blindsided he has become over the last year. It’s the Qliphoth’s doing, it has to be. All of it has been artificial, a trap he eagerly jumped into while it gorged on his strength. And now he is dying from it. Can he still extricate his powers from the tree? It may not be too late for his body to heal, for him to live and perhaps even consume the Qliphoth’s fruit.

Vergil steps nearer to his demonic self, and the roots tighten around Nero’s cocoon, new ones piercing through. His stomach clenches and a whole shudder courses through his body. He freezes, stunned by the physicality of it, the way fear and guilt gripped him in his entirety, as if he still had a body.

This is a mistake. He’s had this answer for a week, now, if not more. His love for Nero disrupted the Qliphoth’s growth in the first place. There is nothing fake there, and if magic has nurtured it over the year, then Vergil should thank it. What does it matter, what he _ thought _ was important all these years? He was wrong, caught in delusions of his own making, and Nero has taught him better. He loves the boy and has been happier with him than ever before. It may be too late to save himself, but Vergil is glad for the chance to make this choice, clearly and consciously.

He doesn’t need his powers, not if he has Nero with him.

More importantly, he doesn’t want them, if the cost is his bond with Nero.

Vergil plunges his arms into the red cocoon, ignoring the scratches left by thorns on them as he reaches inside. He stops short of Nero, the strange ooze clinging to his skin as he hesitates. This Nero isn’t real, it is a representation, yet it feels wrong to grab him without permission.

_ “Father!” _

Nero’s anguished screams bounce all around and this time, the entire tree cracks as it sways. Nero’s eyes fly wide open and scan around in panic, but he slows the moment his gaze finds Vergil. Vergil wiggles his fingers, an invitation, and Nero accepts it without a moment of hesitation. There is nothing fake in the warmth that spreads through Vergil as he grabs his son’s sides and pulls him closer, snapping off the roots still clinging to him. The thorns withdraw, granting him safe passage to pull Nero completely out of the cocoon. The bloodied red liquid splashes them as he breaks out and Vergil lets it wash over him as he wraps Nero into a hug, holding him close, squeezing his eyes shut while Nero throws small arms around his neck.

_ “Please! Don’t leave, Father.” _

Again, something yanks on the Qliphoth, and the demonic tree cracks and snaps, new roots plunging into the red liquid then flying after them. They catch Vergil’s ankles and arms as he stumbles back, pulling on him, trying to drag him back into the tree. Their movement is erratic, desperate. Vergil kicks at one, never letting go of Nero. 

“Stay back!” Vergil yanks his foot away, snapping a root, and straightens. A quiet strength pours out of him and blue rose petals gather at his feet, rising around Nero and him in a whirlwind. “He isn’t for you to take! You already have a source, you greedy scum, and you cannot have both, no more than I can. Take my powers and begone.”

He throws it as a command, clinging to Nero’s frail form, and the roots slither away. They wrap themselves around his devil form instead and the rose petals dancing around Vergil fly off after them, covering the entirety of the roots. A soft blue glow emerges from his demon form and the roses as the roots completely mask him away, and it flares until its strength forces Vergil to squint. He refuses to look away, though, and through the blinding light watches his demon form crack and explode outward—the sight echoed as a sharp pull in his own stomach and a weight stealing his breath. Vergil’s legs give in, and Nero vanishes from his arms as he falls. 

His son is running towards the demon, giggling. A large burgeon emerges from Vergil’s devil trigger, blooming into a gigantic blue rose, delicate and beautiful. 

The Qliphoth roots around it turn a lifeless grey then crumble, leaving only dust behind. Vergil lumbers back up, his mind buzzing, his body throbbing. The whole place is shaking, throwing him off balance as he stumbles to the blue rose. Nero lets himself fall into it, hugging it, and Vergil knows what is expected of him. This is the result of the Qliphoth’s growth, the “fruit” it offers him. He has made his choice and he is content with it, even if it kills him. Vergil sets a hand on Nero’s shoulder, then touches the rose’s large petals.

Blue light washes over him and the pain returns.

Vergil jerks up with a gasp. A powerful wave of nausea slams into him and he bends over the side of the couch, emptying everything he has. Bile mixes in with withered blue roses and chunks of bark, all of it clearly dead and decaying, so unlike the beautiful blooms he used to force out. He coughs and spits without stop, time losing its meaning, until nothing’s left but his shaken, exhausted body. Vergil pants, numb and confused. He feels… better. Drained out, yes, and every breath is fire in his lungs, but he’s floating, not quite grounded in himself yet.

“Vergil?”

Dante’s hesitant question arrives from miles away even though his brother is kneeling right by his side. A knee in his vomit, Vergil notes with a mix of amusement and disgust.

“I’m…” 

Alive? Well? He doesn’t understand. He relinquished his powers and thus any possibility of healing. How is this possible?

“Father!”

The strength of Nero’s hopes washes away any other thoughts and Vergil straightens up, turning towards him. He is kneeling on the couch, at the other end of it, clutching a string of blue roses in his hands, the last of which is bigger than the others. Scratches cover his small fingers and many still bleed from how recent they are. Inflicted by the flowers in his hands, judging by the drops of blood on those.

“I’m here,” Vergil croaks. 

He’s going to need a glass of water or ten. He’s going to need countless hours of sleep, too, and he can still feel the delicate scratching inside of him, a sure sign that not all roses have vanished. It doesn’t matter, not right this instant. Not when it sinks in that he has his second chance, somehow. He knows, somewhere deep inside, that the worst has passed. He’s alive.

“Nero, I—” 

Tears crack his voice, but he doesn’t need to explain. Nero wants the same thing as he does and throws himself into Vergil’s chest. They’re both crying, shoulders shaking as Vergil holds him tight and Nero wraps his arms around his neck. Vergil cannot help the tears. It feels like decades of them need to come out, now, like he is finally allowed to move on. Vergil squeezes Nero, leaning forward and unconsciously clearing space behind him. He startles when Dante joins them, wrapping long loving arms around both of them. It’s unthinkable, to have both brother and son with him, and yet here they are, solid against his fragile, broken body, shoring him up when he needs it most.

He has no idea how long they remain there, wrapped up in one another. In truth, Vergil’s not certain he’s remained conscious for all of it. He is tired and warm and relieved beyond reason, and as long as neither Dante nor Nero moves, he cannot bring himself to do so. Yet eventually Nero’s belly rumbles, and Dante’s answer in kind, and the strange symphony drags a smile out of Vergil, who lifts his head from Nero’s soft hair. It has grown dark outside, and he doubts anyone has eaten at all today.

“Pizza?” he asks, very softly, as if afraid to shatter the dream.

“Dude, I could use a dozen of them!” Dante responds right away. He extricates himself out of the hug, squeezing Vergil’s shoulder on his way out. “Are you… good?”

It’s difficult to say for certain, yet he saw entire sections of the Qliphoth disintegrate and has watched the tree bloom at last. He feels… different. Vergil glances at his hands and forearms; while he has red scars where the tree had pierced, all of it is gone now, and it closed behind it.

“I think it’s… over?”

“All the creepy tree shit outta yer skin went bright blue then bust out. Real sparkles shower, and I…” Dante trails off and gestures at the air. “Truth is, I half-expected you to go with it like a demon ashing. Glad you’re still there.”

He shoves a hand through Vergil’s hair and ruffles them with a laugh. Vergil knocks it away, growling Dante’s name before shoving his hand in his twin’s face and pushing him out of the couch. He doesn’t have much strength in his muscles, but it’s more for the principle of the thing. 

“All right, all right,” Dante mumbles. “I’m takin’ care of the pizza. You just… enjoy the new health for a while.”

He gestures vaguely at the couch, but they both know what he means. Vergil returns his attention to Nero and smiles. The boy is still staring at him, still holding the blue roses he must have pried from Vergil’s mouth. He extends them with a shy smile.

“I-I pulled them out.” 

Vergil wraps his hands around it and pries it out of Nero’s grasp. It’s truly a beautiful colour, and now that he understands it grew as a result of his love, it doesn’t leave him as bitter. Vergil wonders how long it’ll survive on its own and if it’s worth looking for a vase to place it in. It’s such a foolish question, yet he finds great joy in the idea he will live long enough to test it. Vergil smiles at Nero, and his heart fills with warmth when the boy smiles back.

“Thank you, Nero.” He breaks off one of the blue roses, whittling down the thorns then gently placing it in his son’s hair, tucking it behind his ear. “I’m here to stay now. I hope… I hope you can forgive me. For the last year, and for the coming months while I… heal.”

He has no idea what these hold for him. He’s never had to recover in any long term fashion before and the perspective of remaining weak and defenceless for months scare him. If demons were to attack now… Well, he would have Dante, would he not? His brother is sprawled on his counter, phone in hand, and when he catches Vergil staring, he grins right back. Vergil can only roll his eyes and scowl to mask his smile.

“F-Father…” Nero trails off, his cut fingers touching the blue rose in his hair. He is looking at his feet. “I-I never told you…” His voice goes all quiet, and for an instant fear grips Vergil’s heart, and he cannot help but wonder _ what now_. Nero drops his hands. “Th-thank you.”

“Oh, Nero…” 

It is not normal for his child to feel like he must be grateful when Vergil has done nothing but show the bare minimum of respect, but in this, too, they are alike. They have spent so long expecting danger, albeit very different forms of it, that any spaces where they feel safe is mind-boggling. He gently tugs his boy closer once again and kisses his forehead.

“It will always be a privilege to care for you.”

He doesn’t think Nero understands yet, that he is worthy of every ounce of love Vergil has to give and then some. He will one day, but they have a decade of mistreatment to undo first. At least they have time now—time to heal their wounds and build a future together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have an actual epilogue of FLUFF tomorrow!! 
> 
> Congratz everyone, you survived and so did Vergil. :D
> 
> \--BELOW IS THE FULLER LORE EXPLANATION FOR THIS AU--
> 
> It works like this (for this AU): 
> 
> Up until today, the Qliphoth has always been used to drain human love and create demonic power out of it. It actually has the ability to do the reverse: drain away demonic powers to create human love. No one knew because only humans went through the ritual.
> 
> The Qliphoth needs to feed, however. In order to bloom, it must have full access to either demonic power, or human love. It's exactly like M said in the beginning: you need to choose. When you choose power, it offers you a fruit, like DMC5 canon. If you choose love, it blooms into a blue rose, which is the bigger one Nero is holding at the end.
> 
> What has been killing Vergil is actually his inability to choose. While he tells M he'll make any sacrifice in chapter 3, he is lamenting the loss of his powers not long after. He's not *truly* there, it's more of a desperate plea than a solid resolve. He also expressed his willingness to die if it kept his love (to Dante, chapter 5), but that is not the same as "take my powers". You'll that even in Chapter 6, he hesitates for a moment.
> 
> Once the choice is made, the Qliphoth completes its growth and vanishes, leaving Vergil alive and fully human.


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A strange, happy family goes winter sliding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus I make my debut actually writing kid!Nero. :3 Enjoy the fluff you've earned it!!

“Ready?” 

Uncle Dante’s voice is full of joy and challenge and Nero grips the sides of his sledge tight. Before him, the slope dips abruptly, plunging into a fast descent. His father waits at the bottom, a tiny figure with a round saucer in hand. He just went down standing in it, and it was the coolest thing ever—until he hit a bump at the bottom and plunged face-first into the snow. Uncle Dante laughed for so long Nero had to scold him—he isn’t pushing the sledge if he’s laughing!

“Push!” Nero demands.

A wave of heat tickles Nero’s neck as Dante pushes. It’s a cool trick his Uncle can do: when he transforms, he grows even stronger and faster than usual. They told him Dad could do it too, once, but he lost his ability when he almost died. Nero never asks for details. He’s happy they told him this much. They are very strange, his dad and uncle, but he thinks they love him for real, and that makes them better than everyone else. Plus, Uncle Dante is always using his powers to make him laugh.

He pushes him now with all of his superstrength and Nero screams with joy as his sledge launches down the slope. Snow flies in his face, blinding him as he holds on. It’s very cold on his cheeks and some of it gets into his mouth but he can’t stop screaming. He’s going so fast! Trees zoom past him on both sides and he leans back—then his sledge finds a bump, and suddenly Nero is flying with a yelp. He clings harder and lands brutally, bouncing back on the trail and getting snow all inside the sledge, and he’s laughing so much it hurts. It tries to veer left, so Nero leans on the opposite side, bringing it back straight as the slope lightens. Even losing speed, he flies right past his dad, and he can hear his cheer trail him as the sledge slows down and eventually stops. Nero looks back at the trail behind him, left from his previous slides, and throws his arms up.

“I did it!” He climbs out of the sledge and in his excitement he loses balance and falls into the fresh snow. Nero hurries back up to his feet, looking at his dad who’s hurrying towards him. “I went even farther!”

“Congratulations, Nero. You are a master slider, now.”

Vergil’s voice is all smooth. It had stayed broken for many months, when he still had to expel flowers out of his mouth. It’s nice that he can come play with them so often now. He was very tired still this summer, and there are many things they couldn’t do because of it. Or Nero would do the things, but only with his uncle. Uncle Dante is nice, but his father is calmer and more reassuring. 

“Maybe I can do it standing, too!”

“Not if you want to go fast. Remember what I taught you about aerodynamism.”

Nero remembers the big word and something about air hitting him to slow him down. The rest had felt very complicated, and he still isn’t very good at learning new things. Father says it’s not true, but he has been trying to teach Nero a lot of numbers, and other stuff about nature and reading, and Nero always feels very dumb. But he works hard and that counts, right? Uncle Dante says he’s already better than him, so he can’t be all that bad either.

“Uncle says if that’s true, I shouldn’t be sitting, I should be lying back.”

Dad’s lips pinch, and Nero knows that means he’s a little unhappy. He used to be scared of it, but most of the time he’s more unhappy with Uncle Dante than with him. “That may be true, but if you are looking at the sky, you cannot see the trees and correct your course. Safety first, Nero. You and I cannot take the same risks as Dante.”

Nero pouts. He thinks he could manage it, if he was flat on his belly instead. This way he would see the trees, too! He gets the feeling his father wouldn’t agree, though, so he picks up the little rope attached to his sledge and keeps quiet. He can ask his uncle one day when they’re alone. Vergil has reached him, and he’s holding the saucer with one hand, so Nero picks the other and starts off. The sun is getting low and his snowsuit is all wet, but as long as no one tells him he has to stop, he wants to slide down again and again! 

They’re halfway up when Dante flies past on Nero’s tricycle, which has skates and is way too small for him. His Uncle whoops loudly and Nero calls after him angrily. That’s his and dad always says he’s too big and he’ll break it! Vergil sighs at the sight and shakes his head. 

“It’s no use, Nero. Your Uncle never listens.”

“I don’t want it to break…” He thinks of demanding another one, if it breaks, but keeps the urge inside. Everyone always told him to be quiet when he asks for too many things. He doesn’t want Vergil or Dante to become like that, too, so he’s very careful about what he asks.

“I’ll talk to him,” his father promises, and then they’re climbing again.

It’s a steep climb and his legs are always burning when they get to the top, but that never stops Nero from wanting to go down again. This time he insists to have his dad with him and they cram themselves in the small space of the sledge. His Father’s legs are folded around him almost like a shield. Nero doesn’t think they will be very aero-dyna...dyna-thing, but he likes it anyway. They’re also very heavy, and that is supposed to help go fast. So he hangs on tight to the rope and leans back against his dad, and then they’re off again, speeding down the slope. 

Nero screams from top to bottom because that’s what makes sliding fun, and when they hit that bump towards the end, their sledge tips over and sends them both tumbling in the snow. He winds up on his back, half-covered in snow, breathless and laughing. He tries to hold it in, though, because he can hear his father laughing from not far away. It’s not a very loud sound and it’s a rare one, but it’s very beautiful. He likes it, anyway. Nero never made anyone laugh before, and now he has Uncle Dante who does it all the time, and his father, who seems surprised every time it happens. 

Nero laughs a lot more, too. He really likes being with them. He hopes it’ll last. Everyone says it will, and they even moved into a new apartment that is bigger and right across from Uncle Dante’s home. His room in it is bigger, and the ceiling is painted so that it lights up at night, like the stars in the sky. They also promised they would teach him swordfighting when he saw all the cool swords in Uncle Dante’s office. They say it’s a family tradition, so he has to learn, and Nero likes that they talk about him like family. It makes it seem like the want him to stay, but he has heard a lot of promises before. It feels too good to be true.

His sadness is returning and he doesn’t want it to, so Nero gets up and crawls through the snow to his father. He grabs an armful of snow, peeks at him from above, then drops it all on his face, as he has seen Uncle Dante do so often. His dad’s eyes go wide a moment before the snow hits, and then he’s scrambling up on his knees and shoving the snow away, and Nero is giggling but also trying to run, because when Uncle Dante does it, he always ends with his own face full of snow. There is a lot of snow and he keeps sinking into it, and he can hear his dad’s long strides behind him, and then comes the warning—”I got you!”—and two hands grab his sides and lift him up, settling him against his shoulders like he’s a big bag. Nero’s still laughing. He likes being this high and his heart is going very fast.

“This cannot go unpunished,” Dad says, and Nero gasps. There is a little bit of him that is scared he made him really angry, that his father will push him away now, and he does his best to ignore it. There wasn’t any real anger in his voice. His dad is playing, too. “Here!”

Before Nero can squirm and turn to see what ‘here’ means, Vergil lifts him and dumps him in a big pile of snow. It flies around him as he sinks in, and then his father is moving more of it on top of Nero, burying his legs and chest until only his arms and shoulders stick out. He is smiling, and Nero grins back even though he is trapped. He likes the weight of snow on him.

“This is your prison now, Nero. One million years!”

“But Father! That is a very long time.” He pouts, then sticks his tongue out. “The snow will melt first.”

“Will it now?”

There is just enough challenge in his dad’s voice that Nero doubts himself. He has heard that some snow never melts, but he thought that was a mountain thing. Maybe he doesn’t remember it well. His father would know better. But he’s not going to admit that.

“It will!” he declares.

His dad’s eyebrows go very high. “So if I was to leave, you would be confident—”

“Don’t leave!” Nero’s heart squeezes very painfully at the suggestion. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t want to think of his father leaving. Even when he goes out for grocery, he worries he won’t return, that something will happen or he will realize his son is not very good at all, and then he’ll be gone forever. 

The smile vanishes from his father’s face, and Nero knows he shouldn’t have interrupted. He curls up as much as he can under the snow and waits for the scolding, but then Vergil kneels by the side of his mound and places a hand on the snow he packed around Nero’s legs and torso.

“That was not amusing and I apologize,” he says calmly. He extends his arms, and Nero grabs them. Vergil pulls him out of the snow, lifting him all the way into a quick hug. Nero likes when Father holds him close like this. It feels like he is clinging to him. “I suppose I will have to devise another punishment for your cruel dumping of snow upon my illustrious face. Perhaps I ought force you to ride with your Uncle.”

Nero keeps his face nestled in his father’s blue scarf. His heart still beats very fast and he wishes it’d go away, or do that in a more pleasant way. “S’not punishment.”

“We’ll see about that.” He has his amused tone again so Nero relaxes a little. He isn’t gonna leave. They can still have a good day. “Come on, Nero, let’s return to the top and slide down again. Forget I said anything about leaving.”

Nero lets himself be carried partway up. It takes him a little while to forget his fear, but when his heart is a little slower, he squirms out of his father’s arms, lands back into the thick snow, and begins his determined way back up the slope. They have a whole day of slides ahead of them, and this is a secret spot they don’t share with anyone, so he is really wants to do the best of it. With many, many, _ many _slides down! Nero grins and grabs his dad’s hand, pushing his small legs to run faster up the slope, so they can get to the top quickly and then down as many times as he can before dark. He hears his dad laugh again as he pulls, and his heart warms in ways he has rarely known. It really is a beautiful sound, and it’s all for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then they went home, had a hot chocolate, and curled up under a blanket to read together. ~ The End.
> 
> I just want to say, this has been an incredible week. Thank you so much for everyone who read the fic and shared their tears and fears with us. <3 <3 Sof is still working on illustrations, so I will be regularly updating individual chapters with links, and once we have everything I'll get the site to send subscribers an e-mail (probably adding an 8th chapter, just to trigger that). But yeah, we're both incredibly grateful for all of your support and love. It's certainly been quite the rollercoaster. :D

**Author's Note:**

> Updates every day until completed. :D Good luck everyone. 
> 
> And PLEASE drop by [Labyeha](https://twitter.com/labyeha)'s twitter for the art! She has a chapter cover and illustrated scenes and you totally want to see them! They'll usually post within 1-2 hours of the fic update, depending on her schedule, and we'll be using #HumanBloomsDMC


End file.
